


Bright Wastelands, Full of Noise

by little_abyss



Series: The Wastelands [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Blood Mage no Seisen | Dragon Age: Dawn of the Seeker, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Backstory, Confessions, Death, Declarations Of Love, Derogatory Language, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mages and Templars, Music Journalism, Musicians, Past Drug Addiction, Past Relationship(s), Recovery, Relapse, Relationship Issues, Self Confidence Issues, Sick Character, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 135,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the rock band Thrown from the Breach auditions for a new lead singer and guitarist, Dorian seizes the opportunity.  However, during the tour that precedes the music festival Skyhold, he will find that Thrown from the Breach has much to prove - and more to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Wastelands - two notes:  
>  **Firstly,** I would have lost my shit long ago over this fic if it wasn't for my utterly glorious partner-in-crime-slash-all-round-awesome-human merm-aight. Love ya, Mermie. And another huge thank you also to my beta reader and best kadan ever, dichotomous_dragon. Deeds, you have been my number one roadie on this long, strange trip, and I love you for it.
> 
>  **Secondly,** this is primarily a fic which ships Dorian with the Iron Bull, and follows the trajectory of their developing relationship. However, there are a lot of background ships, which are as follows:  
>  Cassandra x Cullen | Samson x Cullen | Dorian Pavus x Zevran Arainai | Isabela x Merrill | Fenris x Anders x Male Mage Hawke. 
> 
> If a ship is mentioned in the above list, you, Dear (Potential) Reader, can be assured that it will at least be inferred somewhere in this giant beast of a story. And yes, this was me airing my whole armada (almost). The tags and relationships appropriate to each chapter will be mentioned, as well as when new characters are showing up.

 

* * *

"I trust my guitar, and I don't care about anything."

 _High on Rebellion_ , Patti Smith Group ( _Easter,_ 1978)

* * *

 

The address is right, at least.  He glances up at the logo on the front of the dilapidated building.  The strangely disturbing eye, done in green and black, seems to stare at him, and he shivers in the cold wind, tightening his grip on the handle of the guitar case he carries.  Inside it, perfectly tuned, rests his last tangible link to his home - the midnight blue, custom-built Manson J-Star which Felix had had made for him.  “Use it, use it, never lose it,” Felix had laughed, his familiar voice grown rough as the sickness within him had begun to take hold, and so Dorian had.  And still does, he supposes.   _Enough of this,_ he chides himself, and takes a deep breath.  He puts up a hand and pushes the door open.

 

“Dorian Pavus!” a woman’s voice trills as the door slaps shut behind him. Dorian recognises it instantly, and smiles through his nerves, as he hears a shuffling of papers and a soft, “Oh Maker damn it, where did I… oh!”  His smile widens as he hears, albeit muffled, the sound of drums.  He looks in the direction that the sound is coming from, as he steps a little further into the room, then hears a tinkling laugh.  “Goodness, you’re even better looking than in the photos for Tempus.”  The woman smiles and walks toward him, then puts out her hand. “Josephine Montilyet.  We’ve spoken on the phone, of course, but it’s always different meeting in person.”  

He takes her hand and smiles back, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you properly, Ms Montilyet…”

“Oh please!  Call me Josie.  Or Josephine, if you really must.”  She smooths a hand over her dark hair, and bites her lip, dark red with lipstick.  It contrasts magnificently with the bright yellow of her button up shirt and the faded blue of her jeans, and Dorian smiles in approval.  She appraises him for a second, then tells him, matter-of-factly, “You’re the last of eight that we're auditioning, so I apologise in advance if they’re a little bit shitty with you.  They won’t mean it, and I’ve warned them not to, but they will be.”

 

Dorian smirks, raising an eyebrow.  “Thank you for the warning, I suppose."  Josephine laughs again as they begin to head down a dim corridor.  He can feel the moth-wings of nervousness fluttering just under his solar plexus, so he smiles and sends a silent prayer that he at least will not make too much of an idiot of himself.  He feels like he’s been doing that a lot ever since Tempus disintegrated and he rescinded his contract with Imperium Records.  Well, rescinded would imply that they’d had a discussion - in truth, he broke it and ran.  Then, after a few (quite a few, truth be told) lean months, the offer of an audition with Thrown from the Breach had come through. And he’d jumped at the chance - partly from desperation, partly from curiosity.  Because he _is_ curious about them; although the band itself is fairly recently established, they, as individual musicians have enough talent and reputation between them to make them something of a super-group.  

 

Of course, he knows their backstories.  Thrown from the Breach's prior lead singer and rhythm guitarist, Lily, had come up through the ranks of the Val Royeaux ska-punk scene.  She had left this behind to sing for a rather delightful bubblegum-punk band named Left Hand, who had made it big off the strength of an album full of radio-friendly summer hits.  Left Hand had eventually disbanded, and Lily, with her unlikely friend Cassandra Pentaghast, had formed Thrown from the Breach.  However, a mere six weeks before beginning the tour for the double-platinum album _The Pleasures of Guilt_ _,_ a tour which will encompass most of southern Thedas and culminate at the popular rock festival Skyhold, Lily had announced she was leaving Thrown to pursue a solo career as Viktoria, the divine.  There were, of course, the de rigeuer rumours - that Lily had been aggressively pursued by White Chant Music for this undertaking, and that it had destroyed her friendship with Pentaghast.  

 

Cassandra Pentaghast, presently the lead guitarist for Thrown, had left her previous band, the ambient metal group Seek Truth, O Maker’s Children!  However, this was the result of a rather public and terribly acrimonious falling out with their lead singer and rhythm guitarist, Lucius Corin.  Two years after Pentaghast's departure, the entire band had disintegrated amid rumours of Corin becoming increasingly paranoid and intrusive in the lives of other band members.  However, by the time it had come to that point, Seek Truth had not released a studio album in almost seven years, despite touring comprehensively during that time.  The music that Seek Truth had made was not accessible enough for many outside of the metal fandom to find palatable - Dorian remembers the shortest song on one album was over twenty minutes long - but they had been well regarded by their fellows, and had had an excellent relationship with their label, Redoubt, the metal and hard rock subsidiary to White Chant Music.

 

Cullen Rutherford, Thrown from the Breach’s bass player, had come to Thrown from the speed-metal band Red Dogs of Violent Death, a band that he had been with since the rather tender age of seventeen.  After the Kirkwall Music Festival incident in 9:37 Dragon, Cullen had left RDVD under circumstances which he still refused to talk about to the media.  After a year doing Maker only knew what, he had shown up again in Thrown from the Breach.  Of course, Dorian thinks, both Cullen and Cassandra are both rather abundantly competent musically, at least from the recordings of old RDVD and Seek Truth albums he’s listened to in preparation and the clips of live performances.  But he, Dorian, supposes that one never knows someone until you have to share a tour bus with them.  Surely, he thinks, it is the qunari who will pose the most issue if he wants the gig.  

 

He goes by a single name, Thrown from the Breach’s drummer - Bull.  Whether this is simply a conceit, or because of what Dorian insists on calling the horn thing in his mind, he doesn’t know.  What he _does_ know is that Bull’s previous band, simply called Lies, had kicked him out due to what was referred to cryptically by the band’s management as ‘ideological reasons’. Lies quickly suffered for this lapse in judgment.  It turned out that Bull had been the lynch-pin of their popularity, and he took a large portion of their fan base with him to various side projects - The Chargers, Masks, and Tavern Wench.  Of these, The Chargers had been most successful, but Bull had left them behind to drum for Thrown. Despite being asked on a number of occasions, the big qunari refused to talk, and after one persistent interviewer had suffered a broken nose for his trouble, the subject was soon avoided, at least in Bull’s presence.

 

Josephine pauses in front of a door, painted industrial vomit green.  She puts her hand on it, then turns back to him and smiles.  “Ready?” she asks.

“My dear woman, I was born ready,” Dorian grins at her, ignoring the way his body is turning him into a liar - his stomach in knots, the quickened flutter of his heart, his palms beginning to sweat.  She smiles back at him, eyes still questioning, then pushes the door open, telling the three people who occupy the small studio, “Then, here we are!  Dorian Pavus, meet Thrown from the Breach."

 

They pause in their talk as he walks in the door.  Dorian catches a look pass between Cassandra and Bull, a strain of _what the fuck_ if ever he saw one, and the look on Cullen's face is one of pure astonishment.  But Maker, Dorian wonders, what _is_ Cullen wearing?  Jeans more hole than intact fabric, held at the waist with, ugh, is that a piece of _chain_?  Southern punk rock at it's finest, obviously.  Dorian has of course dressed for the occasion - it's not every day that one gets to audition for a band with Thrown from the Breach's reputation.  He knows he looks more put together than anyone else in this room - though sadly, that is not much of an achievement.  Cassandra looks as if she is wearing her boyfriend's pajama bottoms and a t-shirt which came from Goodwill, her dark hair short and messed-up; he narrows his eyes as he tries to figure out if she might not have just rolled out of bed and into the practice space. And of course, this is hardly unexpected, but Bull is hardly  wearing any clothes at all.  Dorian barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, and manages to smile winningly instead.

 

He had spent more time than he'd care to admit in front of a mirror, styling his hair just so, applying kohl in subtle smudges.  Fawn coloured leather jacket, offset with a thin, clinging sky-blue t-shirt, the fabric of which is accented with gold triangular patterns; both to accentuate the colour of his eyes and his skin and to create a symmetry with the gold hoops in his ear.  It doesn't matter that he nearly froze to death getting here - the chill of the south still takes him by surprise - body temperature is one thing, but fashion?  Quite another.  He twirls the end of his moustache, a nervous tick, as he glances at Bull again, wondering if the qunari is always so impassive.  A half strangled noise from Cullen arrests his attention however, and he watches as the man pinches his lips together, eyes wide, looking as if he is trying to stifle a laugh.  Then Cassandra looks at Cullen as well, and makes a revolted noise in the back of her throat.  “Dorian Pavus,” she says, as if trying to give her ridiculous band-mate a chance to recover himself, “Nice to meet you, finally.”

 

“And you, Cassandra.”  Dorian steps forward, hand extended, and they shake.  Josephine smiles around the room, and says, "Well, good luck Dorian.  Guys, I'm just in the office when you're done."  Cassandra smiles at Josephine, then asks, "You're ready to go, Dorian? Are you tuned to standard?"

 

He nods at her, and looks quickly about the room, unable to help the way his mouth pulls into a wry smile at the deliberate dilapidation of the practice space.  It is full to bursting with cables and amplifiers, a half dismembered double kick abandoned on a work-bench; a bowl of dog food in one corner; a framed platinum record propped on top of a pile of old _Phillam, Everite,_ and _Ax_ magazines.  Dorian inhales, and Cassandra, almost as an afterthought, gestures towards Cullen and says, “You know Cullen Rutherford, and Bull?”

“Yes.  Well.  I know _of_ them.  You, I should say.”  Dorian lunges toward Cullen’s outstretched hand.  Cullen laughs a little as they shake, “I see my reputation precedes me.”

 

“I think we all have that a little.” Dorian smiles in return at Cullen, and then looks at Bull, who shrugs and waves, but does not get up.  Dorian’s nostrils flare a little, and he smiles stiffly, a flash of apprehension moving swiftly across his face.  His burgeoning concern is squashed somewhat when Cassandra smiles at him and gestures to a newish looking Vox amplifier.  “You don’t mind using this, do you?”

"Of course not, that's fine," he tells her, then kneels on the floor and unbuckles the catches on his case.  

 

It seems that Cassandra cannot resist and wanders over to where Dorian is kneeling. He hears an intake of breath and looks up to see her gaping at the guitar.  “That’s a Manson.  But custom... shit.  Do you have the… oh Maker, that MIDI…”  She purses her lips and glares at the guitar, “They only make a few of them, and they have to be special ordered.  And they cost a fucking fortune.  How is it that you've got one?" she asks, and looks at him suspiciously as he rises, holding the guitar carefully by the neck.

 

He grins as he pushes a hand over his hair to make sure it’s still in place after he has pulled the strap over his head. "Jealous, are we?  Yours is nothing to complain about though - what’s that, a PRS standard? A Soapbar, correct?"  He squints at the bridge.  "But… there’s something…”

“This is my secondary.  I changed out the pickups, and had the headstock…” Cassandra starts to tell him enthusiastically. She is interrupted by a theatrical yawn from Bull, who rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, geek it up on your own time.”  Bull twirls a stick then begins to roll on the snare, increasing the volume until it is a steady, threatening thunder.  Cullen laughs and plugs in the lead to his bass, sending a short whine of feedback into the studio.  “Yeah, you nerds,” he tells them, raising his voice to carry over the noise that Bull is making, “Let’s play!”

 

-|||-

 

They have lost track of time.  Dorian improvises quickly through the jam, but when Cassandra pushes them through the riffs which make up some of Thrown from the Breach's B-side releases, he makes it clear that he knows that too, not just following Cassandra’s lead, but pushing them into other tracks, praying that Cassandra will not take it as a slight.  Even in the studio, even among relative strangers, he cannot resist making it obvious to the others that he has a good deal of presence, and more than enough confidence musically to fit in well.  Cassandra grins and shakes her head with an expression of pleased surprise when Dorian begins to push back a little bit, to take the music in a slightly different direction.  

 

Finally, Dorian approaches the microphone, looking the rest of them.  Bull rolls his eyes and shrugs imperceptibly as if to say _why you gotta ask?_  Cullen and Cassandra both nod, Cullen grinning happily as he does it.  The grin turns positively maniacal as Dorian sings the first few lines - though his comfortable range is lower than Lily’s, the precision that he brings to the guitar is clearly a point of pride with his voice as well.  He holds sustains beautifully, voice never faltering, diction clear.  While Dorian knows that his singing isn’t wildly innovative, he also knows that he’s far more suited to the music that Thrown seem to want to make than Lily was.  Her style, he considers, is all flounce, pure pop; she is an extremely good singer, but sought too much attention with trills and other fillers, rather than keeping things crisp and unadorned, which was in his opinion, at odds with the heavy rock style.

 

After the second chorus, Dorian sees that Cassandra has turned her body away from him.  Without making too big a show of it, he looks at Bull, sees him narrow his eye a little and shake his head.  Cassandra shifts slightly, then looks to Cullen.  Dorian struggles to remember the next line of the lyrics as he sees Cullen nod.  Thank the Maker though, there it is, tripping off his tongue and he chastises himself for paying too much attention to the others.  They play to the end of the song, then Bull stops, twirling his sticks as the others slowly stop playing too.  Cassandra is last to finish, and as she tromps on a pedal, she sighs in satisfaction.  

“Thank you, Dorian,” she says, looking directly at him with a rather fearsome light in her eyes.  He smiles weakly as she tells him, “It’s been a pleasure.”  

 

Dorian thinks he knows what that means, _thanks but no thanks,_ but his manners get the better of him.  “No, Cassandra, thank _you._  The pleasure was mine, I assure you..”  He sighs and unplugs the lead from the body of his guitar.  “I can only assume you’d like to talk about me behind my back,” he says, pulling the smile which he’s come to regard as his most effective armour around himself again.  He hauls the guitar strap backwards over his head, then pushes his hand over his hair, making sure it’s still in place, a gesture which he doesn’t even notice himself doing until he thinks he sees Bull smirk at him.  Before he can think to smile back, the smirk is gone and Bull is looking the other way, fiddling with one of the tuning rods on his snare.  So Dorian continues, “Well, Josephine has my number, and you…”

 

“Dorian, if you’d like, you can just wait outside,” Cassandra says, her expression a little tense.  She glances at Bull and Cullen before she says, “This won’t take long.”

“Oh. A-alright,” Dorian says, and curses himself for the sudden trepidation in his voice.  He clears his throat and says blithely as he kneels to put the guitar back into it’s case. “You’re not going to leave me to twist in the wind about it.”  He nods, “I like that.”

 

Bull grunts and stands up from behind his kit, grimacing as if he is in pain.  Cullen pulls the strap of his bass over his head and unhooks it, then pulls the lead out and throws it on the floor.  “No wonder all your leads are wrecked,” Cassandra chastises gently, and he shrugs at her, then turns to put his bass on its stand.  Dorian watches surreptitiously, pretending to be securing the clasps on his case, as Cullen hitches at the back of his jeans and crouches in front of the amplifier, his t-shirt pulling taut over the muscles in his back as he mutters something about additional wattage, looking intently at the head.  Dorian sighs and rises, looking up at the others; Cullen is still fiddling with the amplifier, Bull twisting from side to side as he stretches, but Cassandra is watching him.  So he smiles again, and gestures over his shoulder.  “Just wait out here?”  

Cassandra nods, and smiles slightly back at him.  “Yes.  We won’t be long."

 

Almost as soon as Dorian is out of the studio, having closed the door carefully behind him, Josephine is on him.  “I heard it, I heard it!  You were fantastic, I didn’t hear them play that long with any of the others…”  Dorian sighs, looking at his fingers as he does.  The calloused ends look rough and red - he had played far harder than usual, he was so eager to impress.  He knows he’s more than competent, could easily hold his own musically with any of them, but there is something which grates on him about how unproven, how Maker-damned _virginal_ he had felt in the studio.  It’s not that he was playing for heroes or anything so pathetic; just that old, familiar whisper in the back of his mind which craves the acknowledgement that he is their equal, that wants them to know how good he is.  Josephine continues to enthuse until Dorian rubs his throat and says, “Josephine, thank you so much, but… could I have a glass of water, please?  I’m parched.”

 

“Oh, of course!”  She smiles broadly and hurries off, leaving him standing in the anteroom.  He sighs again, crossing the small space to an elderly armchair, stuffing protruding from the ripped brown corduroy fabric on the backrest.  The silence seems unwieldy, too heavy almost, after the extended musical session.  Dorian perches on the edge of the seat, resting the guitar case on its end between his knees, wrapping his arms protectively around the neck.  He leans his cheek against the cool, smooth leather, and listens to the sound of Bull’s voice coming from the studio.  He can’t make out what is being said, but the tone is unmistakable.  Cassandra and Cullen both speak at the same time, and then Cullen stops, but Cassandra continues.  She sounds irate, like she is issuing an ultimatum.  A further utterance from Bull, almost a growl, and then Cassandra says something which sounds to Dorian distinctly like, “Get over yourself, Bull,” and then the door is opened.  

 

There is a crash from within the studio, the sound of a cymbal being pushed off its stand, then silence.  Cassandra steps out of the studio and closes the door behind her.  She smiles in a strained fashion at Dorian, who begins to rise from the chair, affecting a nonchalance he does not feel.  Cassandra smiles, tense, professional. “If you want the gig, it’s yours.  We’d be glad to have you.”

 

Dorian smiles slightly, and raises his eyes to Cassandra.  “It doesn’t sound like the vote went entirely in my favour,” he says, almost unwillingly, loathing how needy it sounds.  Cassandra narrows her eyes at him, and shrugs. “Do you want the gig or not?  I wouldn’t offer if we didn’t want you.  So?  Staying, or going?”

 

He is silent for a moment.  Eventually, he opens his mouth to reply, then changes his response at the last instant to a question, asking, “I’m not going to walk into a qunari fist or anything, am I?  I’m far too pretty to die in such a predictable fashion.”  Cassandra only laughs, a short, sharp bark, then shakes her head.  “Bull will come around.  He’s mostly disagreeing because we’ve sat through eight auditions today of varying degrees of ineptitude, and his patience is extinguished.”  She shrugs, “He’ll rag on you for a while, but it’s just his way.  He’s a good guy, under all the front.”

 

Dorian nods, thinks for a moment, then nods again with more purpose.  “I’ll take it, pending contract.  I… I have to confess to a bad experience with Imperium, when Tempus was in the process of jittering apart…”

“I read about that.  It sounded nasty…”

“...and the whole process was made no nicer by Felix’s death.  Bad enough to have the parting on such bad terms, but that…” He shakes his head and is silent.  Cassandra swallows and shuffles awkwardly.  Finally, Dorian huffs and tells her, “Anyway, you can imagine I’m not overly desirous of thralling myself for another four album torture session…”

 

Cassandra smiles and nods knowingly, and Josephine enters the room again with a cold bottle of water.  She holds it out to Dorian and grins at Cassandra.  “Did he say yes, yet?”  Cassandra laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Listening at doors again, Josie?” she asks in a mocking tone.  Josephine laughs, not looking in the least abashed, and Dorian notes that she does not deny it.  Her dark eyes sparkle as she asks him, “Well?”

He shrugs as he tells her, “I’d have to see a contract, but tentatively, yes.”  He smiles his most winning smile, and the two women look at him and smile back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A concert at Lothering; Bull saves the day; Dorian doesn't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, new tags this week: concerts, flirting, slow burn, masturbation.

* * *

“The crowd roars / they ruined and repaired me…”

 _Malpractice_ , Faith No More ( _Angel Dust_ , 1992)

* * *

 “To hell with this!” Cullen shouts to no-one in particular over the baying of the crowd. “Maker’s Breath, where is that tech?”  The rain is pouring down, sheets of water on the brink of becoming sleet.  The blank, slate-coloured sky had finally burst as they had mounted the stage, forty-five minutes behind schedule.  Then, about fifteen minutes into the show, an amplifier which had shown no previous sign of malfunction had blown suddenly, sending a shower of sparks out into the crowd.  Dorian fears there will be no saving either the amplifier, or the show itself.

 

Almost as if to prove he is right, the crowd bellows its rage with renewed vigour.  Clearly, this is the last straw.  As the crowd begins to chant “Li-ly! Li-ly!” Dorian turns to Cassandra and shakes his head.  She smiles grimly and begins to walk toward him.  However, she is not even three paces along the front of the stage when a half-full beer bottle flies up out of the anonymous crowd and hits her in the side of the face.  It’s only made of thin plastic, and the damage is not bad; the shock of the blow is the worst part.  As Dorian watches, Cassandra’s hand goes to her temple, her mouth opening in an 'o' of surprise.  It might have been comical, if it weren’t for the snarl which is hard on the heels of the shocked expression; it is savage, full of frustration.  As she turns to face the crowd, she hauls off her guitar, holding it over her head, where it hangs for an instant, the white of its body reflecting brightly in the lights.  Enraged, she brings the instrument down, hard, on the side of the stage, cracking the body, strings plinking off, a deadly spiralling whine curling into the night.  

 

“Happy?” she screams at the faceless crowd. “Happy now, you fucks?”  She brings the guitar up again, and before Dorian can get to her, she has thrown the broken guitar into the crowd and stalked off stage.

 

Dorian turns, just in time to see another beer bottle thrown up onto the stage, this time directed at him.  The calls of “LI-LY! LI-LY!” are getting more strident, gathering momentum, but still, random catcalls float up at him and he looks to Cullen, who shrugs and yells something that Dorian can’t hear, but looks suspiciously like, “It’s fucked.”

 

Dorian sighs, finally glancing to the rear of the stage to look at Bull, expecting to see him sitting behind his kit.  Weirdly though, the drummer is standing, hands raised above his head, smiling, actually smiling.  “Andraste preserve us, he’s going to get us all killed,” Dorian mutters, and then Bull is stepping down off the platform which his kit is on, and walking toward Cassandra’s abandoned mic.  Dorian sees he has something silvery in his hand, a short, metallic thing. He wonders what it is, frowns deeply as Bull taps the mic and growls through a grin, “Settle down, you punks.”  

 

The noise continues, but there is a small portion, Dorian sees, that actually does settle down, and he marvels at the humour which Bull seems to exude.  “Hey,” Bull continues, “I know you guys came to see Thrown rip some shit up.  Or, man, I don’t know, maybe you came to the gig to see if we were gonna implode now Lily’s gone to be _Viktoria, the divine_ _..._ ” and he says Lily’s new identity in such a Maker-damned fancy Orlesian accent that he earns a laugh from the crowd.  It is still only small, but _kaffas,_ thinks Dorian, _he’s doing it, he’s really doing it._

 

“Maybe you came to see if the dude we got to replace her was half as smokin’ as he is in his press photos.  And guess what?” he asks the crowd, in such a sly, conspiratorial tone that it’s all Dorian can do not to laugh himself. “Turns out he’s half as hot again!  Dorian Pavus, ladies and gentlemen, our very own punk rock peacock.”  As Bull gestures across the stage to Dorian, they clap, a lot of the crowd applaud, and there is even a wolf-whistle or two, and Dorian grins in spite of himself.  Bull continues, glancing at Dorian suspiciously. “But can the guy sing? Can he play worth a damn?”  

 

The crowd roars, impossible to tell if it is in assent or not, and Dorian’s stomach flips with sudden nerves.  “Yeah, yeah,” Bull says, “I know you didn’t get much of a sample.  I ain’t asking you to decide on the basis of songs you remember Lily singin’.  But lemme show you something, kids.  Turn your ears on.”  He walks quickly over to Dorian, puts a hand over his mic. “Don’t fuck it up, ‘vint,” he mutters, his breath hot on Dorian’s cheek, which is wet from the rain being blown under the canopy of the stage.  Bull re-crosses the stage, back to Cassandra’s microphone, where he takes a deep breath and blows a long, wailing note into the harmonica in his hands.  Alright, you want blues… Dorian thinks, and his grin broadens, his fingers automatically making the right shapes, words rising like soap bubbles in his mind.

 

-|||-

 

They call his name now, over and over.  It feels, still, after all these years, so perfect, so like the return of spring after a long winter.  Bull taps the harmonica against his leg and rubs his lips, smiling.  Cassandra swats Dorian on the arm, grinning, her secondary guitar slung about her shoulders.  She looks manic, triumphant, and she grabs his free hand and raises it in her own.  The noise from the crowd surging, just a continued maelstrom now, noise enough to match the storm.  Dorian turns around and sees Cullen behind Bull’s kit, arms upraised, the twin starbursts tattooed along the underside of each bicep standing out starkly against his pale skin.  He is grinning so hard it makes Dorian laugh.

 

“Thank you, Lothering!  Tonight was a one-off, a never before seen, never to be seen again event.  We hope you enjoyed it… the last half, anyway…” the crowd roars at that, and Dorian knows he can do no wrong by them now.  “Well, that you enjoyed it as much as we did.  Now, to bed, you rock and roll babies of the darkness!  It doesn’t have to be your own...” he adds, and there is a strange ripple that runs through him as he hears, over all the noise, the sound of Bull’s low, bellowing laughter.  He raises his arms once more, and the stage lights go out dramatically, plunging the small, open air arena into darkness, save for the galaxy which is hundreds of phone screens illuminated in the firmament.

 

Late then, later now.  He rolls over in the darkness and pulls the pillow with him, covering his head with it.  It doesn’t help at all.  He still hears two loud bangs, a barrage of high pitched laughter then Bull says something.  His voice sounds like honey, slow and sweet, even through the wall.  Dorian hears the girl titter, and then there is silence.  Nothing for long minutes where the unfamiliar sounds of an unfamiliar city creep into Dorian’s ears from outside the hotel - traffic, a radio or television, the creak of the bed as he shifts, his own breathing.  

 

Then he hears, through the wall, a guttural moan, low pitched and thick with want.  There is something in that sound that makes him feel sick, and sad, and guilty… and hungry too, hungry to hear the noise again, hungry to make it himself.  He feels his whole body tense under the unfamiliar sheets, tries to will it to relax.  The moan comes again, trying to form words, but Dorian is too far away, or the walls are too thick to make them out.  He sighs, blinks into the dark under the pillow and clutches it tighter around his head, concentrating instead on the very faint high-pitched burr in his ears.  But oh, Andraste, there it is again, and the moan, it pulls out into a long, aching sound of just this...obscene pleasure that he can’t, no, he won’t listen to it, he sits up and pulls all the sheets off the bed in one sudden gesture, grabs the pillow and strides across the room, throwing the door to the corridor open.

 

It is only once he is out in the corridor that he realises he really doesn’t have any other place to go.  As far as he knows, Cassandra and Cullen are either asleep or… otherwise occupied, and Maker, how would he explain himself anyway?  Can I sleep in your room, because the mean qunari is torturing me with with the sounds of all the hideously fun-sounding sex coming from his room?  He blows an irritated breath out his nose and clutches the blankets closer to his chest.  Frozen with indecision and annoyance, caught between not wanting to go back into his own room and listen to that… that… performance, or knock on the door to Bull’s room and end it.  As grossly unappealing as the first option is, he knows that he will be ragged on with a mercilessness which he will fully deserve for weeks afterward if he chooses the second.

 

He slides down the closed door of his room, and sits, glowering at the door of the room opposite. _Maker , if you can hear me, he prays, give Bull erectile dysfunction for the rest of the tour.  Or premature ejaculation.  Or both.  I’m really not fussy.  Or maybe you could see he keeps Cassandra awake next time?  And while you’re at it, please give Cullen a sudden aversion to those white t-shirts which seem to make up the bulk of his wardrobe.  You know the ones I mean.  Yes, Maker, the tight ones…_  He smiles at the thought of a Maker he could converse with like this, and considers that it isn’t so unlikely.  Taking a deep breath, he puts his chin on his hand and rests the elbow on his knee. _I really don’t know what I’m doing anymore_ _,_ he thinks, and closes his eyes against the sting of tears.  He knows he’s just overwrought, overtired, so he sighs again and forgives himself for the lapse.  

 

And because he really is tired, the next thing he knows is a weight on his shoulder and Bull’s voice in his ear.  “Hey, ‘vint.  ‘Vint.  Wake up.  Y’alright?”

Dorian rubs a forearm over his eyes and looks up, blearily, into Bull’s face, struggling to remember how he got here.  Bull grins at him and asks, “Didn’t keep you up, did we?  Whyn't you say something?  You didn’t have to sleep in the hallway…”

He yawns and shakes his head as Bull slides down the wall to sit next to him.  “No, no,” he tells Bull, his voice a little raspy with sleep still, “Truly, I relish the feeling of numbness in my ass cheeks.  It’s very invigorating, as is the horrible, crippling pain in my neck.  In fact, it’s only slightly more pleasant and soothing than the soundtrack you two were supplying.”

 

Bull grunts laughter. “Dunno how much you could hear through the wall…”

“Oh, enough.  More than enough, I assure you…”  
Laughing again, Bull turns slightly to look at Dorian as he asks, “Enough like, ‘Wow, that sounds like fun’, or enough like, ‘Wow, that sounds like fun, I wanna join in’?”

“Eurgh.  Pitiful.”  Dorian raises his chin and arches an eyebrow, but won’t meet Bull’s eye as he says, “Be confident in the knowledge that I have zero interest in anything more than a completely professional relationship.”

 

Bull smirks at him most unpleasantly, then shrugs, before saying, “Well, just so’s you know, my door is always open.”  Dorian is so taken aback that, ugh, there is no other word for it, he gawps at Bull, then he pulls himself together and frowns.  

 

Slowly, he repeats, “Your door is always open.”  A shiver races up his spine as he says it, and he pulls his head back a fraction at the sudden wash of imaginings the words conjure; the slick of spit on skin, the race of heartbeats, that wicked abandonment.  Then he exhales, makes a revolted noise and responds haughtily, “If ever I lower my standards that far, you’ll be the first to know.”

 

“Sounds like a challenge,” Bull smiles, gentler this time. “Me?  I always thought a sure thing was better than nothing at all.  And hey, my standards are pretty damn high.  The door might be open, but not just anyone gets an invite.”  He yawns then, and begins to rise.  “Well, g’night.  Gotta get my beauty rest.”

 

“So, you’ll be asleep for the rest of the tour then?  Shall we wake you up for Skyhold, or invest in a drum machine?” Dorian asks with a snicker, smirking at Bull. When Bull offers to help him up, he takes the offered hand with a certain caution.  He doesn’t know what he was expecting though - of course, there’s no instantaneous knowledge, no electrical charge, no choirs singing from on high.  They look at each other for a moment, there in the hallway, until Bull turns away, smiling slightly and walks the few paces back to his room.  He opens the door and says, over his shoulder, “Good night, Dorian.  You did good back there.  Get some rest, huh?”

 

Dorian nods, and turns, unable to stop the swell of pride in his chest at the acknowledgement, no matter how quickly he tells himself that Bull was probably just trying to regain some professional grounding.  Once he has closed the door to his room, he leans back against it, still clutching the pillow and sheets to himself.  Without thinking, he looks at the wall which divides his room from Bull’s, and the words _my door is always open_ resound in his ears again.  He shakes his head and crosses the room, throwing the pillow and sheets on to the bed as he walks past, then stripping off the t-shirt he’s wearing and throwing it on top of the pile.

 

He continues through the room, knowing there is no more chance of sleep tonight, thinking he can make it up on the bus tomorrow.  So instead he walks to the tiny ensuite bathroom, turns the shower on at the maximum heat setting and stares at his reflection in the mirror over the sink as he waits for it to warm up.  He sneers at the face in the glass when he notes a blemish forming under his jaw, the result of bad road food and the stress of still not really knowing his bandmates well enough, and resists the urge to pick it.  

 

Finally, when he can hardly see his reflection for steam, he tugs down his pajama pants and steps into the shower, standing under the spray, allowing the water to stream down over his face, then flipping wet hair back to have the jets over his shoulder.  He sighs into the white noise of the shower, and thinks again of Bull; that long, low moan, even in memory, goes through him, and he feels a twitch of interest and gives his cock an experimental pull.  Almost immediately, he feels himself begin to thicken, lengthen, so he closes his eyes, imagines those huge hands around his hips, what the grey skin would look like in contrast to his own dark bronze, the stink of sweat and the sheer force of the muscles under skin, inside him.  

 

Expectedly brutal, or surprisingly gentle, or even a little of both?  Dorian doesn’t know, but he suspects the third option, and pulls first in lazy, half-committed strokes, then harder, more urgent, as his breathing becomes shallower, as the hot water beats down on his shoulders, wet hair now hanging in his face, eyes closed.  His left hand goes out, finds the tiled wall in front of him, leaning against it as his right continues to stroke, the horns, that one grey-green eye, oh Maker, stupid, forbidden fantasy, nothing more, but ugh, that swagger, that knowing grin, that almost sweet, wistful smile, imagined twist of cock, fingers in his mouth and, and ...oh, _fasta vass, quel sensatio!_ Blank and beautiful and pure nothingness all at once as the imaginary lover cries his name as he comes, and Dorian mouths the words _wait , wait,_ but he can't, not any longer.  So he comes, and immediately the hot water washes everything away, he watches as, white on white, it all goes down the drain.  The hot water is turning cool, and so he quickly turns it off and reaches for his towel.

  
There is an armchair in the nook under the window, through which is now filtering very early morning glimpses of light.  It's just after dawn, and the sounds of the city of Lothering have quieted into the lull of four AM, when it is too late for most party goers to be returning home, but too early for the work-a-day world to be up and about.  Dorian throws himself into the armchair, shifting back into it until he can pull his legs up and over the armrest.  He's never comfortable unless he can curl, and what better thoughts to curl up with than potential.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Bull discuss the age old question "If you could be in a band with anyone, who would you chose?"; Cullen comes home; Dorian loses something precious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags for this chapter: Travel, Sick Character, Backstory, Family  
> New characters for this chapter: Cullen's mum, and Mia Rutherford.

 

* * *

 

“Two nights of stealing / three days of healing / morning’s for choking / evening’s for croaking"

Kiddie Hypnogogia, Mini Mansions ( _Mini Mansions,_ 2010)

 

* * *

 

 

 

The tour continues.  Long nights and short days, where they wake after midday and begin the drive to the next location.  They had begun in the south of the South, Ostagar for one night, frozen and dismal, marshland marching away to where Fereldan becomes the Korcari Wilds.  There, they had been supported by Goat Thrower, a local band who will be down the card from them at Skyhold.

 

Goat Thrower had turned out to be an enthusiastic, but not particularly talented group of young Avaar.  They had looked shocked to a man when they had meet the band, their half-blue-painted faces varying in expression from leering surprise to frank disbelief as they’d stared at Cassandra.  Dorian could not help it - as soon as the words _you play like a dude though!_ are out of the guitarists mouth, he looks at her as well, sees the hurt and anger there. “Fucking imbeciles,” she had muttered, turning on her heel.  Bull had merely looked at them in disdain and turned as well, striding away after Cassandra.  The guitarist opened his arms wide to ask, “What’d I say, huh?”  Cullen had only shaken his head slowly, and Dorian wonders if the guy had thought that that was a compliment.  “Dick move, kid,” Cullen had finally told the staring guitarist, and Dorian could not help but agree.

 

Then they were at Lothering, salvaging the show as best they could after the storm created havoc on the roads.  They seemed to travel in the eye of it - seeing its effects by way of slips and piled up traffic, swollen rivers and the detours being enforced around downed power lines.  Of course, the gear was delayed arriving; the soundcheck was an unmitigated disaster, as was the first part of the show.  However, news of the Lothering concert had spread quickly, and the videos which found their way around the Web had meant that as they headed west to Redcliffe, there began to be more fan and media attention to contend with.  As a result of this interest, what would have been a one night show and a one night rest was extended to accommodate the extra demand.

 

This means that as they travel to Honnleath, Cullen's hometown, they are all desperate for rest.  This, on top of being in the cold rain, and the stress of traveling while still getting to know his bandmates means that Dorian is getting a cold - worse, it means his voice is fading fast.  Only Bull seems to sense how much it costs him to rest it by staying quiet, and he seems to delight in the fact that Dorian can only really grunt or speak in short sentences, asking him questions about music history and his favourite gear.

 

Bull looks up from his laptop and grins across at Dorian.  "Hey, 'Vint, if you could form a band with any musician currently workin', who would you choose?  Excluding present company, of course."  Cassandra is asleep in a seat, book open on her lap, snoring a little.  Cullen is immersed in trying to re-string one of his bass guitars on the winding road.  Dorian glares at Bull, then sighs, thinking.  Quietly, he mutters, "Anders; Vivi de Fer; Dagna."

 

"So... Anders from Fader."  Bull nods and arches an eyebrow, then shrugs as he says, "He's just a vocalist, so I guess you wanna get out of singing.  Fair enough."  Dorian frowns and shakes his head, wishing his voice could be relied upon to explain more - he loves singing, but if he had a chance to work with Anders, of course he would take it.  He had loved Fader ever since he heard their first album, _Queen of Cats_ , a bootlegged copy from a friend of a friend.  When they came to Minrathous on tour for their album _A Little Electricity_ , Dorian and Felix had procured fake IDs especially to see them play.  Dorian smiles a little at the remembrance of Felix telling him his feathers looked ridiculous as they walked under the arc-sodium lights of the train station into the city, and his own cavalier laugh in return - Anders wore feathers, he would as well.  Bull raises an eyebrow, obviously hoping for more of a response, then grins and strokes his chin as he considers Dorian's other choices.

 

"Vivi is a kickass bassist, for sure.  You know she sessioned on some tracks for Lies, right?  Damn... she is fucking talented, but she sure scared the shit out of me.  She works with KWYLET, uh, Knives Where You Least Expect Them, now, right?"  He seems lost in thought for a moment, then grins at Dorian and says, "Never figured you for a fan of Bees!Bees!Bees! though.  That's riot grrl punk stuff.  Surely not your cup of tea?"

"No reason other than talent.  What's your dream band?" Dorian says with a shrug.  He swallows, feeling the itch in his throat that means he'll lose his voice in a few days if he doesn't rest it, and pops another cough lozenge out of the packet beside him.  Bull yawns and rubs his eye.  He looks off into the distance, out the window at the surface of Lake Calenhad, which gleams in the light of the afternoon sunshine.  "Fenris from Lycanthrope.  He's a multi-talented little fucker.  I’d want him for guitar, lead guitar. He totally commits, man.”  Bull pauses for a moment, then says, “He's kind of an asshole, with not much of a sense of humour if you don't know him, but I like him."  

 

He rubs his cheek, hand rasping over stubble and says, "Uh, maybe that chick from Highever Orphan... Oh, no, no, scratch that, Isabela from Fader and Pirate Queen.  Oh hell yeah, I love that girl.  Especially the Pirate Queen stuff, that was music to fuck to."  He grins lopsidedly, and his eye goes misty, as if with a pleasant recollection.  Then he nods and shrugs, "I'd have her on vocals, maybe rhythm too.  I think Fader waste her on bass.”  

 

He strokes his chin again, considering, then tells Dorian, “The bassist is harder… Either..." he thinks again, slowly narrowing his good eye, letting the word hang in the air until Dorian wants to interject with a verbal signal of his exasperation.  He settles for raising his eyebrow and rolling his eyes.  Bull grins at the gesture and then shrugs again. “It’s an important choice.  In some alternate reality, I might be in this band, you know.  Gotta choose wisely.  Probably either Krem, the guy we had in The Chargers, or that weird dwarf guy from Cailin and the Ogres.  I already worked with Krem I guess, so it’d be the guy from Cailin. Can’t remember his name though.  You heard their stuff?”  When Dorian shakes his head and makes a face, Bull chuckles. “C’mon, if you like Bees!Bees!Bees! you’d like those guys.  Riot grrrl is only hardcore with more girls on stage.”  Dorian rolls his eyes again, thinking _clearly, you have no idea of the distinction ,_ but of course has to settle for silence.  

 

-|||-

 

Finally, they arrive at Honnleath.  The show they will perform here had sold out the fastest of all the venues on this tour; mostly that is due to Cullen's status as local god.  Dorian watches Cullen as he looks out the windows of the bus at the mostly grey concrete and rusted steel of the buildings in the town centre.  He thinks he sees a strange mixture of apprehension and fondness on Cullen’s face, wonders what it might mean.  Cullen smirks strangely when they pass a high school, the sign reading Temple Collegiate.   "My old school.” he says, when he sees Dorian looking at him, “Got caught with Lee Samson cutting class, they nearly expelled us both for it.  We might have done some other stuff before that, but I deny everything.”  He smiles slightly, then sighs.  “That's where Red Dogs was formed."  He sounds a little sad, and a lot resentful at the memory, so Dorian doesn't push for more, though he badly wants to.  

 

Eventually though, Cullen continues without prompting, brushing his long hair back into a ponytail and letting it go, a tick Dorian has noticed before when Cullen is discussing something uncomfortable. “And there, we had our first gig there.  Well, not there-there,” he laughs awkwardly, and Dorian smiles and looks at him.  Cullen has just been gesturing to a Mac Tir’s franchise restaurant, bland and sterile-looking, _just like their food_ , Dorian thinks.  “It used to be an army barracks, disused since the Blight; local punk and metal bands too young to get in anywhere that sold liquor used to use it for gigs all weekend.  It was a pretty good scene.  We used to squat there too.  Great times, man.”  He laughs again, a little ruefully and adds, “My poor mother.”

 

They arrive at the venue a little before schedule to find the gear already unpacked and waiting.  From there, it’s a simple matter of doing soundchecks and then more waiting.  Cassandra yawns as she puts her guitars out on their stands; despite everyone else allowing the technicians to handle this minute detail, Cassandra always prefers to do it herself.  Dorian is waiting for her to finish - Cullen and Bull have finished their preparations and have gone to find something to eat.  

 

“I don’t know why people think this life is so very glamorous,” Cassandra mutters to herself, and Dorian smiles, thinking it’s the misdirection that all successful musicians do is have orgies atop huge piles of money as he tries not to crunch the cough lozenge.  The bitter chemical orange flavour leaves his tongue feeling thick, strange, but he cannot feel the dry rasp of his overtaxed vocal chords any longer, so that’s a small price to pay.  He sniffles a little, and coughs into the crook of his elbow, grimacing as he does it.  

 

“It’s all just waiting, then drama, waiting, then drama.”  Cassandra sighs again, twitches the secondary guitar a little so it is canted slightly to the right.  “When I was in Seek Truth, there was so much waiting it was impossible.  So long between albums it became more side project than the side projects.”  It’s the first time that Dorian has heard her talk about her old band, Seek Truth, O Makers’ Children! and he tilts his head inquisitively to the side, hoping that she’ll catch the gesture and continue.  But she doesn’t, instead nudging a cable a little more to the left and sighing.  “Come on.  Let’s get out of here.”

 

-|||-

 

The show goes well.  Dorian is pleased his voice holds, though it is only holding at the end, and he knows he is flat, hitting perhaps one note of three correctly at their last number.  And by then, when he comes to say his final thank you, his voice is little more than a croak.  He manages to get the words out, but as the stage lights plunge into darkness and the curtain swings across - yes, an honest-to-Maker curtain, Dorian is thrilled by its presence all over again - he throws up his hands in horror.  He steps back from the microphone, and tries to groan, but nothing comes out.  So he takes the guitar strap over his head, hands it off to the waiting technician.  Despondent, he turns away from the front of the stage and looks at Bull, his skin shining with sweat, grey under the black of his tattoos, a worried expression creasing his brow.  “Y’alright, ‘Vint?” Bull calls down.  Before Dorian can reply, Cullen clasps his shoulder and says, “You’re coming with me.”

 

Dorian’s stomach drops.  He frowns, tries to ask “What do you mean?” But he can only manage an incomprehensible rasping noise, and ends up coughing, face reddening alarmingly.  Then Cullen blinks in confusion, and his expression rapidly shifts to something like chagrin.  

 

“Fuck, I’m sorry!  I meant, we need to get you to a doctor.  And I know I’d never hear the end of it if I let a chance go by for my ma to do her mother hen routine.  So, you’re coming with me - stay at my Ma and Dad’s house tonight, we’ll go see a healer in the morning.  Ma’s a nurse, she’ll be able to tell us what you’re in for, if we need to cancel Denerim.”

 

Dorian sighs.  He tries to speak again, to say, “I don’t want to cause a fuss,” but again, nothing comes out except a rasp and more coughing.  He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised, but each time he is; he’s never lost his voice before.  

“I’ll go find her.” Cullen says with a grin, giving Dorian’s shoulder a squeeze. “Give me twenty minutes, guys.”

“Thanks, Cullen,” Bull says with a smile which is honestly relieved.  He then looks at Dorian and says, quietly, seriously, “They’re good people.  You’ll be fine.”

 

Dorian arches an eyebrow and clicks his tongue, thinking: _you_ _’d think I was a_ fledgeling _trying to leave the nest,_  but he remembers that it is a fait accompli to try and speak.  Cassandra smirks, and then sighs, wiping the sweat from her forehead by pulling the bottom of her black t-shirt up and passing it over her brow.  This exposes the heavily tattooed space over her hips and the bottom of her black sports bra, and Dorian quickly looks away.  

 

“It was a good show,” Cassandra says, and Dorian looks back to her from the faded red velvet of the curtain.  “All things considered, you did very well, but,” she pauses, glances at Bull quickly.  His expression is neutral, but carefully so, like he is guarding it.  Dorian is instantly on the defensive, mentally squaring his shoulders to hear, it's not working oout, but all Cassandra says is, “we need you to take better care of yourself.  Have you been eating properly?”  Before Dorian can answer, Cassandra shakes her head and gives him a small smile.  “No, forget it.  Now is not the time. Let’s get off this stage.”

 

Dorian is levitating one of the large amplifiers into the back of the truck which will take their gear to Denerim when he hears a rather ticked-off, matronly voice behind him: “And just what do you think you’re doing, Dorian Pavus?”  He finishes setting the amp down, seeing the roadies look at each other and grin, then turns around to see Cullen smirking in a rather embarrassed fashion, standing between two women.  One is clearly Cullen’s mother; shorter, rounder, but with the same curling blond hair and similar golden eyes.  The other woman is a little older than Cullen, her dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her eyes bold and blue.  Her features are sharper than his, somehow tougher-looking.  

 

“Dorian,” Cullen says, “meet my ma, Ann, and this is my sister, Mia.  And Ma, if you could try not to embarrass me more than is completely necessary, that’d be great.”  Cullen’s mother flaps a hand at him, effectively dismissing his statement, though she is smiling indulgently as she does it.  She approaches Dorian, her expression changing to one of concern, and he extends a hand to her.  She looks at the hand, grins and takes it; but instead of shaking it, she pulls him into a huge hug.  Dorian stiffens within the circlet of her arms, then his arms come up under hers and he presses his hands into her shoulderblades, returning her embrace.  Something within him almost breaks at this simple gesture, and he smiles, almost in spite of himself.

 

“Oh kiddo, you sung your little heart out, out there.  Anyone could see it was paining you, poor boy.”  Over Mrs Rutherford’s shoulder, Dorian can see Cullen blush in the half-light of the halogen lamps lighting the backstage set entrance and Mia looks at her brother and chuckles, punching him lightly on the arm.  

 

“Ma’s as bad as you with the waifs and strays,” she mutters to him.  “Don’t I know it,” he says, sotto voce.  Mrs Rutherford pulls back and looks up at Dorian.  She puts a cool hand on his brow, purses her lips, then puts both hands under his jaw.  “How are your ears?” she asks.   _Fine_ Dorian tries to say, but of course, he just mouths the word, so he smiles and shrugs.  Mrs Rutherford smiles. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know that I know what I’m talking about.  Twenty years as a general practice nurse, so you’re not the first young man I’ve seen with overtaxed vocal chords from not taking proper care of themselves.  Especially not with our Cullen bringing home his punk friends since from beyond the dawn of time.”  

 

She sighs and looks at Dorian again before she tells him, “You’ll stay with us tonight, that’s for certain.  Cullen can have the sofa.”  Dorian tries to protest, rather weakly, but Mrs Rutherford holds up a hand. “It’s already decided, Dorian.  You’ll stay with us.  Cullen will be fine, won’t you darling?”

 

“You could stay with Bran, if you want?” Mia suggests, “That way you guys could have a catch up too…”

Cullen makes a snorting noise and looks at his sister in mock reproof. “And miss Ma’s pancakes in the morning?  No fear.”

Mia laughs up at her brother and raises an eyebrow. “Thinking with your stomach again.  That’s the Len we all know and love.  Good to have you back, little brother.”  She seems a little sad as she says it, at least to Dorian, but Cullen just grins.  

“Come on, let’s tell Cass and Bull what’s happening.  You guys coming?” he asks his mother and Mia.  Straight away, Mia nods and tells him, “Oh, yes, I haven’t seen Cassandra in ages,” but Mrs Rutherford shakes her head. “I’ll just pop out to the car and tell your father.  You know how he gets if he’s waiting too long.  Send me a text message when you’re finished, darling?”  She smiles at Dorian, catches hold of his hand and squeezes it as she adds, “Don’t be long, now.  Dorian should get some rest.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian stays over; Cullen talks history; A Doctor's visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags for this chapter: past drug addiction, recovery, past relationship(s)  
> New characters: Cullen's dad

 

* * *

 

“Now and then, when I see her face / she takes me away to that special place / and if I stare too long, I’d probably break down and cry.”  

 _Sweet Child O’ Mine,_ Guns ‘n’ Roses ( _Appetite for Destruction,_ 1987)

 

* * *

Dorian frowns, struggling out of the front passenger seat of the little white hatchback.  Mr Rutherford, Owain as he insisted, has reached the trunk before him and is hauling out both Dorian’s bag and Cullen’s at the same time.  Let me, Dorian tries to say, grabbing the handle of his own bag, and Owain arches an eyebrow.  “Sorry, son, didn’t catch that,” he says, through a smirk not unlike Cullen’s own.  

“Dad, you’re gonna give yourself a hernia doing that,” Cullen tells him in an irritated voice, and takes the handles of both bags, pulling them away from his father and from Dorian.  The narrow road is mostly dark apart from the street lamps, and silent as only suburbia can be in the very early morning.  “Nice to see chivalry’s not dead then,” Owain says with a chuckle, and relinquishes his hold on both bags.  Cullen immediately hefts them out of the trunk, and grunts with surprise at the sudden weight, “Maker, Dorian, what do you have in here?  Bricks?”

 

Dorian tries a snort and rolls his eyes, then points at Cullen and flexes his bicep.  Both Cullen and his father laugh.  “You walked into that one, kid.” Owain tells Cullen.

“Just as cheeky, wrecked vocal chords or not…” Cullen mutters, but there is no malice behind the statement.  He throws Dorian’s bag over his shoulder, theatrically swaying under the weight and then gestures Dorian and his father forward, into the house after his mother.

 

As they are walking up the path toward the open front door, Owain asks Cullen, “Did you know about Bran’s new job?”

“Yeah,” Cullen says, and Owain tells him with a smile in his voice, “Not too shabby.  Good reliable hours, too…”

“More reliable than being a musician, Dad?”  Cullen’s voice sounds amused, but tired, and Dorian tries to suppress a chuckle, thinking _if this is the kind of good natured ribbing you have to put up with, Rutherford, you have no cause for complaint_ _._  

 

“Yes, of course; but more like ‘good reliable hours’ are better than no hours at all.  Been a lot of unemployment around here after the Blight, and that bloody war's just made things worse. People moving on and taking their business with them.  Your brother’s been getting by, but only just.”

“Aw, Dad, I didn’t mean…”

“I know, kid.  I know.  Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask…”  Owain drops his voice, but they are not that far behind Dorian, so he can still hear as Owain asks quietly, “Do you still talk to Lee?”

 

Dorian does not hear Cullen’s reply, if there is one.  He steps into the house, noting the age-shabby paintwork, the well worn nature of everything he can see in it.  The little kitchen is scrupulously clean, however, and Ann smiles at him over her shoulder.

“Cullen will show you your room, sweetheart.  Would you like a cup of tea?  Something to eat?”  Dorian smiles at her and forms his two hands into a capital T shape, then mouths the words thank you to her.  She turns and steps toward him across the pale gold linoleum. As she cups his cheek quickly, she smiles fondly up at him. Then she looks over his shoulder at Cullen as she says,“What about you darling?  You’ll want something to eat, surely…”

“No, ma, it’s nearly half one in the morning…”

“Come on, I made that raider queen bread for you... Par Vollen bananas don't come cheap, you know...”

Cullen hesitates and then nods, smiling, “Alright, just a little bit though.”

Owain laughs, “Man after my own heart.  Your mother’s banana bread could conquer nations.”

 

“Wouldn’t want to put those bloody Orlesians out of a job…” Ann replies archly, and Cullen mutters as he grabs the strap of Dorian’s bag.  “Makers’ Breath, Ma…”

“Don’t profane in my house, Cullen, there’s my darling,” Ann says without turning around from the kitchen counter, fussing with the cups and saucers.  Cullen looks at his father in exasperation and Owain grins and rolls his eyes.  Dorian barely suppresses another chuckle.  However, there is something rather bittersweet for him in observing this easy familiarity between the Rutherfords.  “Come on, this way,” Cullen tells him, and heads off down a narrow, darkened corridor.

 

The house really is small; Dorian has no idea how two adults and four teenagers could share the tiny space.  However, it has obviously been the site of all the important events in the family history - as they tread the worn carpet in the corridor, Dorian looks up at the framed photographs on the walls and stops, looking at them.  Cullen stops as well and laughs when he looks at the expression on Dorian’s face in the dim light.  “Yeah, dad’s put the entire Rutherford history on this wall,” he tells Dorian, sounding embarrassed and proud at the same time.  In the centre of the masses of images is an enlarged photograph of a younger Owain and Ann, both wearing the cream and red of what Dorian still thinks of as southern Chantry weddings.  They look fresh faced, nervous and utterly in love.  Dorian swallows, then looks at Cullen, who is still looking at the pictures, smiling slightly.  The dim light from the kitchen makes Cullen’s eyes seem darker than they are, a rich, honeyish shade rather than the bright amber they appear in daylight.  Almost unconsciously, Dorian swallows again, and then clears his throat.  Cullen starts slightly and grins at him, then turns.

 

“This way!  Oh, that’s the bathroom in there,” he pushes a door open to the right and turns the light on, revealing a bathroom which is the same shabby-but-clean as the rest of the house.  “And here,” Cullen says, coming finally to a door marked _enter at your own risk!!!_ “...Is my old room.  Maker preserve you.”

 

The walls are literally covered, floor to ceiling, in posters.  Dominating the room is a massive tour poster of Last Warden Standing’s _In Death, Sacrifice_ tour, all in deep blue and silver.  Almost as large, on the opposing wall, closest to the tiny single bed, is a poster of LWS’s bassist.  Dorian laughs when he sees the poster; Al Theirin has his trademark goofy grin in place, his guitar raised high above his head.  

 

“Andraste, Ma hasn’t changed anything…” Cullen mutters and Dorian grins at him, pointing at the poster of Theirin and raising his eyebrows.  “Yeah, he was my hero, way back when.  He was at Temple for a while, but he's a Redcliffe boy, so I'm not sure why.  A year ahead of me and..." Cullen clears his throat and frowns, then continues almost grudgingly, "I met him, apparently, years ago when Red Dogs did the Kirkwall circuit.”  Dorian frowns at that, and mouths the word _apparently?_ accompanying it with a shrug.  Cullen sighs and looks at the floor for a moment, then back up at Dorian again. “I… don’t remember it.”  He covers his mouth briefly and finally mutters, “I was too… I was high at the time.  I don’t remember it.”  He repeats the last sentence in a tone of voice which is partly ashamed, and partly angry, and Dorian, not wishing to stir the hornet's nest more than he has already, nods quickly, hoping that Cullen will take his chance to drop the subject if he wishes.  

 

There is silence for a moment.  Then Cullen snorts and says, still looking up at the poster, “I don’t remember much at all from that time.  There are flashes - I remember a yelling match with Isabela from Fader, but not what it was about.  I remember Meredith, I remember Lee and I holding her back from some little mage she would have torn apart with her bare hands, this kid just dancing out of her grip, just fucking goading her...thinking how strong she was, but I don’t remember what the slight was, or if it was real or imagined on her part.  I remember people running through the streets, those weird narrow streets they have in Kirkwall… the red clay with blood on it.  I don’t remember who started what at Kirkwall that year, whether it was us, or Fader, or Dreadnought.  Or even just the crowd.  I don’t remember.  Because of the lyrium.”

 

Kirkwall.  The very name has become synonymous with chaos, with rock excess writ large.  Dorian remembers watching footage of the descent, shaky and panning wildly from one direction to another.  Prior to the events of 9:37 Dragon, Kirkwall had been home to one of the largest rock and alternative festivals in Thedas - rivaled only by Antiva City's CrowFest in scale, but embracing a much broader range of music.  That is, until the milieu of bands brought together groups so disparate that tensions could not be avoided - the thrash-metal band Red Dogs of Violent Death, highly politicised art-rock band Fader and the aggressive, post-punk band Dreadnought.  Hundreds of people were injured in the ensuing riots; many died.  Some blamed Red Dogs of Violent Death, or Dreadnought for inciting the violence; but many, including the media had blamed Fader, and their lead singer, Anders in particular.  

 

From that gig, and a long time afterwards, Anders became _persona non grata_ _;_ hounded by the media, reviled by fairweather fans and denounced by fellow musicians.  He went into seclusion, cutting himself off from virtually any contact with the outside world.  The other members of Fader took up side projects to pay the bills - their bassist, Isabela’s band Pirate Queen, to which Merrill contributed drums and back-up vocals in between her performance art pieces; Hawke, who had played lead guitar, drifted from bands and into production.  For a time he worked with Lycanthrope, then Casteless, then Rebel Warden.  But always, he defended Anders, often stridently, maintaining it should be innocent until proven guilty, and that in his opinion it was the system that failed, the same system that kept mages leashed.  He blamed the media for being ‘sycophantic mouthpieces’ for a ‘corrupt and degenerate system,’ as he put it.  Dorian smiles sadly at the recollection of watching an interview with Hawke, his hands balled into fists on his knees, leaning forward in his seat until his father had come into the room and wondered aloud what the decrepit-looking queer on the television could have to say that was so terribly interesting.

 

Dorian shakes himself and looks at Cullen.  He stares straight ahead, not seeing the poster in front of him, oblivious to everything except his patchy recollections.  Dorian's heart swells for a moment, realising as he does what Cullen must be feeling - the same desperate, lonely, completely irrational hope that one day, the weight on your shoulders would be gone.  Cullen sighs suddenly, his face softening considerably as he looks at Dorian and puts his bag down on the bed.  "You know," he tells Dorian, his lips curling into a small smile, "I like you when you're quiet.  Ah, I mean..." he looks aghast for a second, and then corrects, "I like you normally.  It's just... You're easy to talk to, that's all."  

 

Cullen inhales deeply and rubs the back of his neck.  The room suddenly feels a lot smaller, and as the silence stretches, Dorian cannot help but wonder what that scar might feel like under his own lips, how those long blonde waves would look clenched in his fist.  He snorts and folds his arms over his chest then, when Cullen looks at him, Dorian cuts his eyes in the direction of the door and raises his eyebrows, shifting his expression to something bordering on amused exasperation.  "Right.  Yes.  Tea.  Oh, sorry, I'm in your way, aren't I?"  Dorian sighs a laugh, then as Cullen begins to turn away from him, he throws caution to the winds.

 

"Cullen?"  he rasps. But in the half-second it takes for Cullen to turn back towards him, raise his own eyebrows and ask in return, "Yes?"  Dorian changes his mind and simply says, "Thank you.  For this... for..."

"You've got to rest that pretty voice of yours, you daft thing.  But..." Cullen grins and swats Dorian on the arm gently, "It's no bother.  Really."

 

-|||-

 

Dorian smiles around at the dimly lit room.  It really is a temple to Cullen's youth - now that he is looking carefully, he sees posters for Highever Orphan, Broodmother, Traitor's Daughter and Killer of Birds, all bands he recognises.  It must have vexed his parents terribly when Cullen was still living here, Dorian thinks, but it tells him a lot that they have kept it this way despite Cullen not living under their roof for many years.  This room has the air of someplace sacred about it.  He chuckles grimly at the narrow bed, hoping that he doesn't fall out too many times in the night, and switches off the lamp on the nightstand before wriggling down under the blankets.  

 

He sighs, rolls over to face the wall, the bed creaking slightly with his shifting weight.  The moon is full tonight, and the dim light it casts shines through the thin curtains, illuminating the room softly.  Slowly, Dorian's eyes adjust, and he finds he is looking at a series of photobooth style portraits, four shots in a line on a narrow strip of photographic paper.  He can make out two young men in them, not more than sixteen or seventeen, one blonde, one dark.  By peering closely, Dorian sees that the blonde is clearly Cullen; the dark haired boy looks very much like Lee Samson, the other founding member of Red Dogs of Violent Death.  Dorian reaches out to the strip of paper, lifting it slightly so that he can see it better... however, as he does, he notices that the paper feels thicker than it should, and he frowns, wondering.  He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, pulling up a little more.  The tack gives way, pulling out of the plasterboard wall, and the strip of paper splits in two.  "Kaffas," Dorian swears, feeling the sudden clench of guilt and annoyance at himself for poking into someone else's business.

 

He sits up in the bed, still holding the photographs between his thumb and forefinger, relieved that the tack is still in place.  Unable to resist, he turns the photographs over, still puzzling over it's thickness, and then his eyebrows rise slightly at what he sees on the reverse.  On the outwards facing side, Cullen and Lee are grinning and mugging for the camera - friends, best friends, but nothing more.  However, the second group of pictures, glued carefully for many years to the back of the first, makes it clear that there was more.  It is the final picture which is most telling.  Only a third of Lee's face is visible, his back pressed against the wall of the photobooth.  He is grinning into Cullen's kiss, his eyes open, both hands down the back of Cullen's ragged jeans.  Cullen looks serious, his eyes closed, one hand up, fingers wrapped into the fabric of Lee’s stained t-shirt.  Dorian stares at the photographs for some time.  Then, he rouses himself and turns, tacking them back in exactly the same spot as before.  

 

It is a long time before he sleeps.

 

-|||-

 

Ann laughs, a high-pitched, delighted sound.  "You have the most wonderful accent, Dorian! I never would have guessed!  And goodness, but you say the most wicked things..."

"Wicked is all in the perception, my dear lady.  Though I'm sure to a woman of your innocence and virtue, the very flowers in the hedgerows must seem wicked..."

 

Ann snorts and then chuckles.  They continue walking through the carpark of the healer’s office where Ann works - she has wrangled him an appointment where the healer had confirmed her suspicions and given Dorian a nasty potion to drink as well as a lecture that every time he did this, he was doing himself permanent damage.  "Are you forgetting what my son does for a living?  The stories I've heard about him would turn any mother's hair grey."  Dorian looks at her hair and raises his eyebrow quizzically, and she laughs again.  Then her eyes crinkle as she grins, cupping a hand around her mouth to whisper, "I'm a bottle-blonde these days, darling."  He grins back. "I'll take that information to my grave," and she smirks and begins fishing in her handbag for her car keys.

 

On the drive back to the little suburban house, Dorian's curiosity finally gets the better of him.  Tentatively, he begins, "Ann, do you know what happened between Lee and Cullen?"

Immediately, he regrets asking.  Ann's face clouds over, her normally sunny expression closing in on itself until her face looks suspicious, mask-like. She exhales a long breath and asks, "Why do you want to know?  Is..."  and suddenly, her jaw clenches, she swallows and her eyes are swimming with tears as she asks him, "Is he using again?  Oh, Dorian, if he is, oh Maker..."  

 

She flips her indicator on, pulling over to the side of the road quickly.  She looks at him then, tears shining on her lashes, mouth slightly open, pulled down in a rictus of... Dorian cannot put his finger on it, partly shame, partly exasperation, partly fear.  He shakes his head, "No, no, he's not, Cullen's not using lyrium.  I... I'm sorry Ann, I was only curious, that's all.  There were so many rumours when they broke up, and Cullen... well, he plays his cards close to his chest.  And..."  Dorian looks down briefly, then back up at her as he says, "I am truly sorry.  I did not mean to offend you, or to make you worry unnecessarily."

 

Ann sighs, and sniffs, then looks heavenward and runs the tips of her fingers underneath her eyes.  "It's no bother," she tells him, her tone of voice relieved, immeasurably so.  "Those boys.  They were thick as thieves at school, never saw one without the other.  Honestly, if one of them had been a girl, I would have sworn they'd end up betrothed," she laughs a little at that, "or one of 'em in the family way.  But as it stood, they were like brothers.  Cullen was never close with his own brother, but with Lee... He was such a nice boy too.  And then someone at Temple was dealing that awful... that awful _stuff_ _,_ and..."  She pauses, stricken.  After a moment where she clearly battles with her emotions, she continues, "Cullen at least got off it.  But I hear Lee's worse than ever.  He never was a boy to do anything by halves."  

 

She is silent, then sniffs again absentmindedly and runs her fingers over a small tattoo on her wrist.  Dorian glances at it and sees that it is the letters RDVD in red, jagged font.  “They loved that band,” Ann tells Dorian quietly, and he nods.  “Cullen was always a shy kid, but Lee bought out the best in him, made him doubt himself less.  They were such good friends,”  Ann swallows again, and Dorian sighs, still looking at the tattoo on her wrist.  “It must have been so hard for you,” he says, more for something to say than anything else, but Ann shakes her head.  “It would have been, if Cullen didn’t have Cassandra.  After that awful time RDVD got after the concert at Kinloch, and then that terrible, terrible mess at Kirkwall, I honestly thought we’d lose him.  But Cassandra… she trusted him to do what was right, made him see that a new life was possible, and… I’ll never, never be able to tell her that I’m grateful enough.”  

 

Silence for a moment in the car, just the sound of traffic as it whizzes by, sending a faint shiver of motion through the vehicle with every car that passes it.  Ann smiles sadly and then her face brightens slightly as she turns the key in the ignition and says, “Well, it’s water under the bridge now.  But what about you, Dorian?  Cullen told us last night you were in Tempus?”  She flips her indicator on in the opposite direction, looks wildly about, then cautiously pulls out into the stream of traffic again.  “They never really made it big down here, but I think I remember hearing… what was it called..?”

 

Dorian laughs, “‘Necromancy’, probably.  That was our big single.”

 

“Yes!  Oh, I really liked that one,” Ann hums a little of the melody, and Dorian raises his eyebrow, then sings the bridge for her.  She laughs again, then tells him, “You’re such a charmer.  A couple more minutes and we’ll pick up Cullen - then we’ll have you two back on the road again.”  She sighs and smiles, looking at him from the corner of her eye for a moment.  He returns her smile, then tells her softly, “Look, I know I’ve said this, but… thank you.  I honestly can’t tell you how much your kindness means to me.”  He stops, afraid that the hitch he has heard in his own voice has been obvious to her as well.  He swallows nervously, takes a deep breath then continues, “You were under no obligation to help me at all, let alone allow me to stay under your roof…”

 

“Oh, Dorian!  For goodness sake, anyone would think you were an ax-murderer.  We were able to help - and we did.”  Ann laughs, “I believe it’s called ‘common decency’?  And besides, don’t for one minute think that we didn’t have our own benefit in mind as well - it’s been a real pleasure having Cullen at home, even if it is only for one night.  Even if he does have rather more of an appetite for pancakes than I ever remember.”  She shoots him another glance, and her smile softens as she says, “And it’s been lovely to meet you as well - you’re right when you say Cullen plays his cards close to his chest.  He never really talks about what’s going on for him.”

 

Dorian makes a noise of assent, but his mind is still anchored in Ann’s phrase ‘common decency’.  He doubts his own parents would have been quite so generous with their home and time for a complete stranger.   _No_ _,_ he thinks, _I know they would not be, not even for my sake.  Not if there was not some chance of gain for them._  However, he doubts also that this trait is particular to his parents.  For generations, the whole of Tevinter has been so bound up in a constant state of struggle; the struggle to get out from under, the struggle for freedom from whatever role the hand of fate had shaped for each individual.  He sighs and smiles ruefully as they pull up to the curb outside the Rutherford's bungalow.  “Still,” Dorian says, “My thanks stand.”

  
“Well, Dorian, it was our pleasure.”  Ann pulls up the handbrake and grins at him, “Now, let’s get you back on the road!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos and comments so far! I'm gonna post this faster now (trying for a chapter about every four days), both because I need a little spur to keep myself on the straight and narrow (so to speak) and also because I'm just too excited. Also, I'm going to be posting up the short stories that I've been writing about this AU as a collection called 'Tour Edition'.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Dorian discuss assumptions; Thrown from the Breach arrive in Denerim; Dorian recieves an unwelcome correspondance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags for this chapter: Chess, Magic; Politics; Explicit Sexual Content, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, Angst

* * *

“We are the ones that want to choose / always want to play, but you never want to lose.”

 _Aerials_ , System of a Down ( _Toxicity_ , 2001)

* * *

 

“...and then he looked at me and said,” Dorian does his best Orlesian accent, scowling and pouting, “Mon cher, I’m sure the checks are yours.” Cullen groans at the terrible pun, but Bull, who has been watching their game, guffaws loudly.

“Speaking of checks though,” Cullen says, brightening immediately and looking at Dorian, “I’ve got it in two.”

“Two? Two?! You horrid liar, Rutherford. How could it be… Oh.” Dorian looks at the chessboard, sees where he’s walked his king into the line of sight of one of Cullen’s knights while trying to avoid his white queen. “Oh, damnit, not again…” Bull laughs again, then the bus hits a pothole at speed and all the pieces on the chessboard fall over. Many roll off the tiny board they have been playing on, and Cullen huffs in exasperation when Dorian laughs in delight. “Oh, that’s awful luck, Cullen,” Dorian smirks, “But cheer up. I’ll let you beat me another day…”

“Excuse me? Let me beat you?” Cullen rolls his eyes, then the bus hits another pothole and more pieces roll away - under the few seats, behind their feet. Dorian scoots to the edge of his seat then off, scrabbling under his chair, while Cullen does the same, admittedly with less grace. Dorian thrusts his arm up to the elbow under the seat, and comes up with a white rook and a black pawn. He crawls down the aisle a little further, finding a black queen and two white pawns. “They’re bloody everywhere..!” he hears Cullen mutter, and Dorian looks back, preparing to tell Cullen that perhaps if he didn’t require half-an-hour to make every move, then he might have won several games before the pothole. However, he finds himself staring instead at Bulls’ shins.

 

From overhead, Bull asks, “Lookin’ for this?” Dorian looks up, craning his neck skyward. Bull is holding the black king between his thumb and forefinger, almost delicately. Dorian smiles as he takes the king. “Thank you, Bull…” Bull crouches then, his knee cracking loudly. Bull ignores it. Instead, he smirks then murmurs to Dorian, “He has a couple of really good tells, you know. Aggressive maneuvers, he’ll frown and tug his left earlobe. When he’s got several plays in hand, he sits back and folds his arms. And…” he looks over his shoulder at Cullen, now with his head half stuck under one of the bunks, “when he’s about to fuck you, but you’ve got like, one move left, he’ll sit there and stare at you as if he’s willing you to do the wrong thing.”

“Oh kaffas, I wondered why he was doing that…”

 

“Yeah, well, now you know.” Dorian looks at Bull for a moment, considering. Then, he tells him, rather archly, “That’s… actually very cunning of you.” Bull shrugs and makes a show of looking between the bags stowed along the wall. “Maybe I’m just sick of seeing his smug face when he wins again. Maybe I think you don’t have the talent for chess that you think you do, and you could use all the help you can get.” He smirks as Dorian pouts at him, “Or maybe…” and Bull’s voice goes low, silken, “Just maybe I wanna take every chance I can to talk to you.”

 

His smirk broadens at Dorian’s expression, then he looks up sharply, still grinning and yells, “Cassie-baby! Are you finally gonna get laid in Denerim or what? Anytime you want help breaking the drought, just let me know…” Cassandra makes a disgusted noise from behind the book she is buried in. “As long as I have batteries, Bull, I don’t think I’ll be taking you up on that offer,” she tells him, without raising her eyes from the words. Bull laughs. Dorian takes the opportunity to stand, the chess pieces clutched in his fists, a strange feeling welling within him. He’s still not sure how he feels about Bull; he allows that part of it is conditioning, all those years of being drilled to fear the inevitable Qunari raids. But despite the feeling of trepidation he gets whenever Bull is close like this, there is also a… self-destructive streak, perhaps… that recognises that there is an attraction. Hopelessly futile, and grossly unprofessional, he supposes, but then thought is one thing and action quite another. Certainly, it wouldn’t be the first time a bandmate had sauntered through his mind at idle moments, but Bull… Bull is something different. Different and dangerous.

 

The road narrows, becomes worse for a while, and then all of a sudden opens out into a four lane highway. They reach the industrial outskirts of Denerim late in the day. The sun is sinking low on a horizon marred by chimneys belching smoke and the peaks and troughs of factories with forklifts still busy in their loading bays. While magic is still used for the very highest elevations, the forklift has proven a boon to industrial workplaces throughout Thedas - particularly in the south, where mages are still viewed with an appalling degree of suspicion and fear. Inventions such as the forklift, Dorian considers, mean that there are less jobs than ever for the portion of the populace unfortunate enough to be born a southern mage. Smiling a little to himself, he calls up the Fade within his mind, channelling it through one hand. He watches as the entropic field he has called forth curls delicately along his fingers, catching in the ridges over his knuckles, like smoke and silk at the same time. The black of it is fringed in a bright, almost toxic violet, really rather lovely. He feels a little saddened that so many would see this and immediately question his motivations, rather than view it as they would a sunset - something natural and beautiful.

 

Just thinking of other people’s reactions causes him to look up and he finds Cassandra’s dark eyes upon him over the edge of her book. Quickly, she casts a glance down the back of the bus, toward Cullen and Bull. Dorian follows her gaze, clenching his fist to disburse the residual magic. Bull is staring blankly out the window at the passing landscape, earbuds in, air-drumming, his hands circled around imaginary sticks. Cullen is poring over his laptop, utterly immersed. As Dorian watches, Cullen pushes his glasses a little further up his nose without taking his eyes off the screen, then blows out a breath. Dorian hears the snap as Cassandra closes her book and he draws breath to defend himself as she rises and crosses the aisle to shift to his side.

 

Without looking at him, she asks, “What was that?” Her tone is voice is soft, neutral, and Dorian wonders for a moment at the calmness in it before he answers, “Just a little magic.” He knows his tone is blithe, and could possibly be misinterpreted, but it's too late now to mind too much. Cassandra only snorts a laugh however.“I could see that much. What were you trying to do?” Dorian sighs. It’s hard to describe the feeling he gets when he calls up the Fade. It is something akin to coming home - or at least, what he imagines homecomings should feel like. Warm, open, welcoming with just the faintest tinge of nervousness. Like meeting a lover at the airport; like a first kiss; like receiving a letter from a long lost friend. But Cassandra is waiting and so he tells her, “Sometimes I just… like to put my hand out. Touch it. My magic.” Cassandra arches an eyebrow and smiles, then tells him, “Sounds a little indecent for public consumption.” He is about to argue that that wasn’t what he meant when his eye happens upon the title of the book she’s reading and his frown immediately gives way to an expression of high glee. He points to the book and says, “And yet, you’ll happily read that swill in public.”

 

She immediately colours and flips the book over, obscuring the cover. Dorian laughs and after a moment, Cassandra allows herself a smile. “It really was just a little… uh, feeling up of the Fade, to stretch the metaphor that I unintentionally began,” Dorian says and then exhales a long breath. Cassandra's smile widens. "Speaking of the Fade, and people with a reputation for feeling things up, did Josie tell you who'll be supporting tomorrow?"

 

Dorian frowns. He knows that Thrown from the Breach have always made a point of selecting their local support through fan recommendation. But this degree of interest from Cassandra is rather unprecedented, so after thinking for a moment, he shakes his head and says, "No. Who is it?"

Cassandra chuckles and then says quietly, "Well, you know first up is a Denerim band, Alienage Brat, I think they're called. But second is..." And she smirks, lowering her voice further as she shoots a second glance down the bus, "Pirate Queen. Don't tell Bull. I want to see his face when he sees those big skull and crossbones banners Isabela uses." She stifles a laugh behind her hand and then says through her fingers, "He's going to lose his shit."

"Pirate Queen? Really? I thought Fader were touring already..."

"No, they don't start until next month, apparently. Skyhold is in the middle of their tour. We'll actually be in Val Royeaux at the same time, which is strange - they're performing a day before us. Or after us, I can't remember." Cassandra shakes her head and says, "Not that we have much crossover in terms of fans. Fader are too arty for our crowd." Dorian snorts and smiles a little. "I'm a huge fan of Fader..." Cassandra grins and rolls her eyes, "Of course you are, you're a mage. Talk about predictable..."

 

"Cassandra, for the love of..." Dorian leans forward in his seat a little, frowning. Suddenly, he's quite indignant, and although part of his mind is telling him to reel it in, he honestly can't believe he's just heard such a statement coming from her. "Are you telling me that you really believe that? That because I'm a mage, I would be into Fader?" Having said it out loud, it actually sounds vaguely insulting, and he continues, irritation rising by the second, "Pathetic! By that logic, you should be a fan of some inane pop bullshit. By that logic, because you happen to have a vagina, you should be a consumer, and not a producer. By that logic, you should be a vocalist, or a bassist, not a lead guitarist; wouldn't want to put someone with breasts in too much of the spotlight, especially if she's not willing to get them out." He thrusts his finger at her and glowers as he remarks, "Maker forbid you should even be in a band at all..."

"Fuck, Dorian, I get your point." Cassandra huffs out an angry breath, and then tells him through gritted teeth, "You think this isn't anything I haven't heard before? Those little idiots in Goat Thrower weren't the first to assume I'm a guy." Her frown softens, and she looks at him, her instant of anger gone. She clicks her tongue and tells him, glancing at him quickly, "I'm sorry. It was stupid. I didn't mean to offend you, or be off-hand. I know how much Fader mean to their fans, especially after what happened." She takes a deep breath in and smiles weakly, then asks, "So you don't agree then? That Fader are probably a little arty for the average Thrown fan?"

Dorian arches his eyebrow and shrugs. "I think," he says, a trifle more coldly than he intends, "That the average fan of any band is never exactly what you'd expect. I mean, I love Fader - their music, the aesthetic, that..." He rolls his hands through the air, gesticulating the meaning before he finds the right words. "That _wildness_ , that bravado that seems to characterise their music so well. But then," and here he smirks at Cassandra and his hands go wide in an open gesture, "I also like traditional Anderfels folk music. And Chantry choral music. And some dwarven opera - the really bombastic stuff, not the light opera. What I suppose I'm trying to say," and here he softens his tone, almost daring to put his hand on Cassandra's shoulder, but not quite managing it, "Is that assumption is the mother of all fuck ups. I was just a little surprised that you wouldn't know that already." And with that, Cassandra sighs heavily, and looks at him. It is a look which carries a large degree of shame within it, and Dorian feels a little guilt for a moment. _Perhaps I was too hard_ , he thinks, and then Cassandra unknits her brow and tells him, "I'm sorry. You're absolutely right. Unfortunately, having assumption practiced on oneself doesn't necessarily make you immune to practising it on others. In a strange way, Dorian..." she pauses, uncertain for a moment, then continues, "Thank you. It's... good to get a check, now and then."

 

Dorian chuckles, then smiles broadly at her, waving away her thanks. "Truly Cassandra, I agree. But honestly, I'm never going to turn down a chance to talk music, even if it is just to brag about my absurdly diverse taste." Cassandra snorts and then asks, "You didn't mention any Nevarran music, I noticed." "No..." Dorian says slowly, pulling out the end of the word while he considers. "You mean traditional Nevarran? The throat singing?"

"Ugh, no," Cassandra shudders, and then she grins at him, eyes taking on a slightly psychotic glee as she says in hushed tones, "Death metal."

 

 

-|||-

 

Settled in his room, Dorian is adrift. He has been recollecting the last time he was here in Denerim. Well, actually, he had been trying to work on something, a little piece for Ax magazine, a publication which specialises in technical guitar playing. Instead, he has been thinking about the tour for Tempus’ second album, _Seduction_.

It had been a good album, and Imperium had promoted it heavily enough to warrant touring outside of Tevinter. So they had toured briefly in Rivain, then to Antiva City for a night. That had ended the ‘acceptable’ part of the tour. Wycome (disgusting) and Markham (dull) and Tantervale (frigid) followed. But Denerim, despite all expectations, was actually rather rustically charming. It’s possibly more the recollection of the strapping blonde that Dorian took to his bed that night that has caused this, but just being back here has made the memories swarm into his mind. The way this stranger had smiled around Dorian’s cock, looked up at him through his lashes as Dorian had slowly fucked his mouth, hands in his hair. His hands were a little rough, chapped, and Dorian smiles as he remembers that he wanted to believe this man was a farmhand, or maybe someone who worked with horses. _All my country-boy fantasies_ , he thinks, grinning at himself and trying to re-read the passage he has just written.

 

But it seems his mind is bent on recollecting the entire episode now. He may have told Dorian his name at some stage, but of course, Dorian cannot remember it, just the way he had moaned when Dorian had slipped his cock into this strangers ass, past the ring of muscle, slick and stretched just so. The blond head arched back, throat exposed, a faint pink flush extending down his neck and onto his chest, hands clutching under his bent knees, hard cock leaving precome on the trail of red-blonde hair below his navel. Dorian smiles when he remembers the way the other man had groaned as Dorian had pulled the thick, reddened cock in his fist, how the other man had come quickly, before Dorian had really even slipped into a rhythm.

He sighs, remembers being woken in the night to a light hand trailing down his shoulder, how he had pretended to still be asleep as the other man had dressed, and how his heart had felt both heavy and light at the same time when he had finally heard the door click quietly closed. He shifts, the tumidity beginning in his cock sinking as he recalls that strange emotion; both dissatisfaction and relief. He is about to throw the pen down on the notebook and see about some room service when there is a knock.

 

Frowning slightly, he sits up on the bed, wondering at the tentative nature of the sound. Then he hears Josephine's voice on the other side of the door, asking if he is there, asking if she can come in. Dorian’s frown deepens momentarily, and he hurries off the bed and across the room, pulling the door open, smoothing his face into a welcoming smile as he does. “Josie! So nice to see you. Come in, won’t you? And what are you doing out in the field like this? Come to slum it with us workaday rockstars?”

“Not quite, Dorian. We had… we had an email. About you. I thought… well, I thought you should see it yourself, but I didn’t feel right just forwarding it on.” Josephine smiles, a trifle forcedly, and extends him a sealed envelope with the Inquisition Records logo in the top corner. Despite his misgivings, Dorian laughs and asks, “Is it a naughty letter? Some ribald Facebook-friend sending me the products of an overactive brain? It’s a photograph of a dick, isn’t it?” He grins, clasping his hands together, and then his eyes go wide with sudden inspiration. “Oh, oh Maker, please, please tell me it’s fan fiction. I couldn’t bear it if someone had written smutty fan fiction about me and then sent it. Too, too, funny.”

Josephine is silent for a beat, then lowers her head. “No. I’m sorry to say it’s not any of those. It’s… it’s from your father.”

“My father.” Dorian repeats, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. “I see.” Without speaking, he walks to the small wastebasket under the desk and drops the still sealed envelope into it. Then he stares at the letter, there in the wastebasket as he tries to control the thrumming of his heartbeat, the nervous tension which threatens to tie his stomach in knots. Finally, he feels sufficiently under control to say, “I don’t want to read it. Can you… Josephine, can you just tell me what Magister Pavus has to say?”

He looks at Josephine then, and sees that it is difficult for her to speak. She almost looks on the verge of tears, and Dorian huffs out a breath, then bends to pick up the letter. Breaking the seal quickly, he reads the printed email. Phrases leap out at him, but the one that hits him hardest is _I know my son_. It curls and spirals inside his head, becoming a litany of _I know my son, I know my son, I know my worthless son, I know him, I know how he likes to wallow in filth, how he likes to make his mother cry, how he throws all we’ve given him back into our faces with his Maker-forsaken behaviour, I know my son, I know my filthy faggot of a son._

Resisting the urge to crush the paper into his fist, he looks up from the page to stare at the wall for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he finishes reading the letter, seeing the request that his father is making. Typically, it isn’t phrased as a request at all; a veiled order it seems and Dorian shakes his head, feeling utterly galled. “Retainer…” he mutters, and sees Josephine start from the corner of his eye at the sound of his voice, “more like henchman.” He takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself, then says to Josephine, “He asks that this… retainer… visit me after the show tomorrow night. Is it possible?”

“Yes, yes of course. But Dorian, are you sure that you want to meet with this person in such a public location? Are you sure it won’t affect your ability to perform?”

“My dear woman, I wouldn’t sully my reputation to perform by being overly nervous about this hired goon. And yes, the location is preferable, I think. There will be plenty of people about, so I will have a hard time killing him and escaping.” He tries to laugh at that, hoping to make Josephine less nervous, but it comes out all wrong. Josephine frowns worriedly at him. “Shall I talk to the rest of the band?” Dorian draws in a deep breath and sighs. He does ball the letter in his fist then, not in anger but just an overwhelming desire to be done with this, all this horrible bullshit.

“No,” he says as he drops the balled up paper into the wastebasket, “I will. It’s only fair that they know what’s happening.” He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry about all of this. I certainly didn’t mean to bring my family dramas into your inbox.”

“You didn’t, Dorian. It was your father who sent the email, remember? But… if your parents are reaching out to you, isn’t that a good thing?” She looks at him with nothing but concern in her eyes and so he tries to control the anger in his voice as he tells her, “It only means that they’re trying to choke me. Vishante kaffas, I thought I was finished with all this…”

 

And suddenly, Josephine is there, her arms around him, her hair smelling of almonds and too long with the curling irons. Just as suddenly though, she has released him from her embrace and steps back awkwardly, smiling in a rather bemused fashion, as if wondering what had gotten into her. She laughs and shrugs a little, before her expression returns to seriousness. “Just… Dorian, just know, you’re not alone in this. I can’t speak for the others, but Inquisition is behind you.”

“Thank you, Josie.” Dorian smiles at her, “I appreciate you coming here in person, as well. You really didn’t have to make the journey, just for this.”

Josephine's smile broadens and she tells him, “Well, it wasn’t just for this. What kind of manager would I be if I didn’t see how the road was treating my stars? Plus, I have to say I’m very pleased about scoring Pirate Queen for your undercard… I’m rather a fan of theirs.”

“Oh-ho! Now the truth comes out!” Dorian laughs, trying not to notice how it turns to ashes in his mouth when he thinks about who it is that he will meet tomorrow night, “For that, my dear, you surely owe us all at least a dinner on the company credit card…” Josephine laughs as well, then her eyes glint with mischief as she tells him, “Certainly. Chain-restaurant burgers for all!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soundcheck. Pirate Queen sail in. Dorian prepares for a visitor.

* * *

"Well, if you only knew the things you do to me / I'd do anything to confuse the enemy / there's only one thing wrong with you befriending me”

 _The Beat_ , Elvis Costello and the Attractions ( _This Year’s Model_ , 1979)

* * *

 

“Check, check,” Dorian says for the eighth time, his voice sounding bored even to himself. He looks out across the dim space to the lit-up booth, then hears an okay in his ear and nods. “Oh, thank you,” he says to the roadie who hands him his guitar, then steps back from the microphone to pull the strap over his head. Experimentally, he strums a chord and smiles.

Cassandra yells to Bull, “For the levels, do Golem Heart, okay?” and Dorian hears the four clicks of Bull counting them in. The drum part begins; Dorian taps two four counts with his toe, then looks to Cullen as they start to play. Cullen smiles at him and Dorian smiles back, then steps away from the mic for a moment, feeling a lead cable under his bootheel. He hears Cassandra begin, then counts time again as he listens. Then he begins to sing.

 

The song finishes, and the engineer gives the band a thumbs up from the booth. In the quiet, there is a whoop and the sound of several people applauding from the wings. Puzzled at the reception, Dorian turns toward the noise, and sees three people standing stage right, all grinning and clapping. The tallest, a woman with auburn hair, stands between a fair haired man and a dark haired woman. Still, all are enthusiastic, so that's something.

Dorian sees Cullen look in the direction of the noise they’re making and wave, the gesture a little trepedatious. “Isabela,” he says, sounding cautious, and Isabela walks forward, grinning. “Culls,” she says, smirking up into his face, “No hard feelings, I suppose?”

“None on my account,” he tells her softly, and then Dorian hears a low bellow from behind the drum kit. Eventually, Bull is able to form words, and Dorian looks at him as he says, “Koslun’s Holy Ten-Foot _Cock_ , it’s fuckin’ Pirate Queen...  _Pirate_ _Queen_! You guys, Pirate Queen are here, what are they doing here?” Dorian is unable to help himself, he laughs out loud, the sound catching in his microphone and soaring away into the darkening arena.

 

“Pirate Queen, Pirate Queen,” the blonde man repeats, and Dorian sees he is an elf, well of course, this is Zevran Arainai, “the Pirate Queen herself and her worthy crew, all ship shape and reporting for soundcheck.”

“Ooh!” the shorter woman, another elf, dark haired, her green vallaslin bright against pale skin - this must be Merrill Alerion-Sabrae - “Look at this darling kit!” And she squeals, bounding forward, almost running toward Bull, scrambling up on the plinth that his drums are on. “Ting!” she says as she flicks a cymbal, and then laughs and puts her hand over the tom to Bull, a huge grin on her face as she tells him her name. Bull blinks and then takes her hand, laughing a little to himself. “Merrill,” he tells her, “We met before, dude. At your opening at the Dumar gallery, remember? You were doing majik mirror live.”

“Oh. Oh! Yes! You were the one who went all uncomfortable with the magic bit! Poor thing… oh, did I say something wrong?” Bull has blanched and is looking a little abashed, before chuckling. “Yeah,” he says sheepishly, “I thought it’d be more blood and less magic. I guess performance art isn’t really my thing…”

“Anyone who says it is their thing is either rowing with one oar or they’re a hustler,” Isabela says, raising her voice. She waves to Bull and says, “How are you doing up there, big boy? Did they not tell you we’re your support tonight?” She blows him a kiss and winks, then laughs at his reaction. “Kitten, do you need help setting up?”

 

“No, Izzy, I’ll be fine,” Merrill calls back, already scooting around the side of Bull’s kit and beginning to question him about making adjustments. Dorian sees Isabela nudge Zevran and glance in his direction, before she smiles at him and ambles over. Zevran follows her, his head tilted a little, eyes narrowing slightly. “Pleased to finally meet you, Dorian Pavus,” Isabela says and sticks out her hand toward him. He smiles back, taking her hand and then bends toward her, bowing over it. She laughs as he kisses her knuckles lightly, eyes never leaving hers. “Isabela,” he says, voice almost a purr, hardly believing that he is flirting with Isabela from Fader, “I hear these are your last shows.”

She shrugs and laughs, then tells him, “Yeah, this is the farewell for Pirate Queen, at least for a while. With Fader and Crow Blade getting back together, we thought we’d have a last hurrah.” She smiles. "I had better go and say hello to Cass, I'm sure she's dying to tell me off for something. Do you know our bassist, Zev?” Isabela gives them an indulgent smile before she saunters off, making for the other side of the stage where Cassandra is busy talking specifications with the sound engineer. Zevran smiles at Dorian as they extend their hands, but as Dorian shakes, Zevran pouts and raises an eyebrow. “What, no chivalrous kiss on the hand? I’m shocked,” he murmurs, then turns Dorian’s hand over and bends at the waist. His lips are warm across Dorian’s knuckles, and Dorian feels a short breath escape him as Zevran hovers over his hand a fraction too long to be proper.

 

“I wasn’t aware that you were ever lacking for kisses, chivalrous or otherwise,” Dorian says, secretly rather proud of himself for coming up with such a response when he can feel his heart rate climb slightly higher. Holy Maker, it’s been a while, too long really, and he is clearly out of practice. Zevran only laughs and rises, relinquishing Dorian’s hand. He puts his own on his hip and looks out into the audience space. “There’s never harm in a few more, my friend,” Zevran tells him, and then grins as he looks at Dorian to say, “One never knows where kissing may lead.”

“This is true,” Dorian smirks, “It really is the most delightful way of getting into trouble. I would have thought by now that you’d probably experienced all the different destinations that kissing may lead to…”

“Ah, but the journey is the important thing, is it not? The journey is always my favourite part. Well, that and finding a delightful travelling companion. Or companions, if one is that lucky.”

“One may indeed find himself so blessed, upon occasion. In my experience though, it’s less to do with luck and more to do with talent, if you take my meaning.”

Zevran laughs, “And how does one establish talent? One can never go merely by what is advertised - and often, in my experience, the less subtle the advertisement, the more dull the destination. While there is a lot to be said for your tropical islands in the sun,” Zevran shrugs and makes a world weary moué, “I find that once one has been there a few times, sunny beaches and clear waters begin to pall.” Dorian arches an eyebrow, impressed despite himself at how blatantly he and Zevran are flirting, but without ever having actually mentioned anything ribald. “I find myself in agreement, and I salute your adroit switch in metaphor,” he smiles at the elf, who grins.

“Ah! Pretty and smart! The perfect package! I knew I had excellent taste!” Dorian chuckles, and despite himself, feels heat creep up his cheeks, delighted as he is with the compliment.

 

“Zev, you leave poor Dorian alone,” Merrill appears at Zevran’s elbow and grabs him around the waist, laughing, “Can’t you see you’re flustering him? He’s much pinker than normal now. Are you trying to see how pink you can make him? Oh, can I play?” Merrill grins at Dorian, then looks puzzled. “Oh,” she moans, “I can’t think of anything to say…” Zevran laughs and kisses the top of her head, wrapping his own arm around her waist. “That is because you are a sweet little kitten. You should leave the pinkening to us jungle cats. We’re very good at it.” He smiles slyly at Dorian and says, “We’re very good at a lot of things.” He continues to gaze at Dorian, a small smile playing about his parted lips, the white of his teeth just showing. Then his smile broadens, and he exhales deeply, raising an eyebrow. Zevran then looks impatiently around, over his shoulder toward Cullen. Ruefully, he tells Dorian, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to talk business with my fellow bassist. Talk business,” he grins, “and make him blush, one of which is vastly more entertaining than the other. Farewell until this evening, my friend.” He turns, slipping his arm under Merrill’s as he does.

 

Both Dorian and Merrill watch him go, and Merrill says, “I’ve always wondered how he makes his hips do that when he walks. So jiggly. Isabela does it even better, but I can’t seem to do it no matter how hard I try.” She sighs and says brightly, looking at him with eyes which shine in the dim light, “I’m Merrill. Pleased to meet you!”

“It’s a pleasure, Merrill,” Dorian tells her, relieved and a little saddened by Zevran’s departure. “I’ve been a fan of Fader for a long time, and it’s…”

“Oh, have you? Oh, you’re so sweet to say that… isn’t it nice that we’re getting back together? I was so happy when Hawke called us. And it was so funny seeing Anders again, when we were rehearsing; he’s just as grouchy as ever, almost as grouchy as Fenris, those dear boys. I think Anders is very nervous about it all though. He had such a hard time after Kirkwall. That was really horrible for him. And for Hawke too. Izzy and I got off pretty lightly, considering… but listen to me babble!” Merrill laughs brightly and shakes her head at herself, smiling up at him as she does. Dorian smiles back, sensing a dark rill of magic from her, a bright copper taste in the back of his mouth. He frowns, knowing what that taste means, but cannot reconcile this giggly and innocent seeming elven woman with anything as grim as blood magic. So he just broadens his smile and pulls his guitar strap over his head. “I suppose we should let you get on with your soundcheck,” he says and Merrill smiles up at him and tells him, “Okay! See you tonight!” And with that, she skips away.

 

Dorian follows Cassandra into the wings of the stage. Everything is organised chaos back here - with the show tonight encompassing three bands, it is imperative that everything run to schedule. Denerim has a city ordinance that means that the show must end at midnight, which certainly influences the timing structure. _I don't feel envious of Josie's job_ , he thinks as he sees her arguing heatedly with a man in a suit. There is a heavy tread behind him, and he looks around to see Bull behind him, walking with a slightly dazed expression on his face. "Pirate Queen," he says softly, and Dorian laughs, then asks Cassandra, "So? Did you get your wish?"

"In spades," she tells him, and then turns around to look at Bull, walking backwards towards the green room as she says through a smile, "Your face was a picture. I will treasure that moment forever."

Bull laughs, his low bellow. "So happy to have given you a Kodak moment, Cass. I live to serve." Another pair of footsteps joins theirs, hurrying along the wooden boards and then Cullen joins them, muttering, “Save me, save me, save me…” Everyone else laughs at that, and Cullen rubs the back of his neck and groans. “I don’t know how, but every time we talk, Zev twists the conversation into something… else. I don’t know how he does it. Just... ugh. I feel like I need to take a shower, and I haven’t even done anything…”

“...yet.” Bull smirks and then he chuckles and claps Cullen on the shoulder, rather hard by the sound of it. “Cheer up, _Culls_ , there are worse people to be hit on than Zevran ‘flirting is my native language’ Arainai. He’s a master.”

 

The conversation continues, idly meandering around various topics - speculation about why Crow Blade are reforming, Cassandra wondering if there is anything to the rumours that Undead Marching are about to split up. Dorian sits on the edge of a chair and rubs his hand across his eyes, mentally preparing for the conversation that he’s going to try and have. Eventually, he gives up on trying to prepare for it, and just waits for the conversation to reach a natural lull. Bull is telling the others that his set up will be too tall and broad for Merrill to work with, so they will need to build in additional time for set up for elements of his kit to be reinstated. Cassandra nods, seemingly only half listening, and so Dorian clears his throat. They all look at him - gold eyes, puzzled. Dark eyes, the brows above them knit in something like irritation. And one green-grey eye, seemingly dispassionately curious.  Before he loses all confidence, Dorian begins speaking, first telling them of the email that Josephine had bought to his attention yesterday. “While I’d rather deflect the whys and hows of this situation to another time…”

“Which is your right,” interjects Bull.

“...I wanted to let you know that this is happening, tonight. While it will not affect my ability to perform,” Cassandra’s eyes narrow and she shoots a quick glance at Cullen, who shrugs and looks at Bull, whose eye never wavers from Dorian’s face, “I can’t guarantee that I’ll be a very happy camper for the next few days. Forewarned is forearmed and all of that.”

 

“But… why now? Why not just blow this guy off, do it another time?” Cullen is the first to speak, and to do him credit, he looks concerned. Dorian tries to smile at him, but his stomach is in knots again, so he shrugs instead before saying, “There’s no harm in hearing what this man of my fathers has to say. But I wanted to do it now, because otherwise there’ll be no end to it. It also gives me time to think.” He sighs, then continues, “There’s no way that I will compromise what we’re working towards to go back to Tevinter, no matter what this man has to say. Not yet.” Cassandra and Bull both nod, like he’s just answered a question that they hadn’t asked.

“What do you need from us?” Bull asks, his tone of voice soft, careful. Dorian smiles at him, but there is something choking within him and he knows it isn’t his usual stunning grin. “Nothing. Just a little patience if it all goes to shit, I suppose. I can imagine what the message will be, even now, so it’s not going to be the most inspiring way to spend an evening, but also not the most traumatising either. However, if you could help me bury the body later, that would also be much appreciated.” Bull and Cullen laugh, and even Cassandra gives a snort, which Dorian supposes is as close as she could come to exposing that she does have some kind of sense of humour. Dorian grins and flaps his hand, glad that the moment has been broken.

Then he sighs again and looks at Cassandra. Her eyes are still narrowed, cautious and appraising, and he looks away, catching Bull’s gaze upon him. And what is that face? Worried almost, is that what it is? But then the expression is gone and Bull asks, “Is there anything else we need to do, or can we eat now? I’m starved.” Dorian shakes his head and rolls his eyes, then laughs, “Of course, I can see you fading away before our very eyes. Perhaps you’d like to see if we can find some fish and egg pie? Or a Nevarran cheesemonger? Your smell seems like it could use some work…”

“Aw, you love it, ‘vint,” Bull grins and begins to rise, shoving his hands in his pockets as he does. Dorian smirks at him, sighs and rises, “Maybe Cullen could find us something traditional Fereldan..?”

Cullen laughs and says, “You complained so hard about the food south of here, what makes you think Denerim is any better? Traditional Fereldan is still vegetables and meat boiled together until everything reaches the same advanced degree of tastelessness…”

“Those were my words! My words exactly! Thief! Plagiarist!” Dorian blusters and then Cassandra chimes in, “And what’s so bad about Nevarran cheese?” They continue to verbally spar as they rise and stretch, then walk from the room and out of the building. Dorian breathes deeply of the chill spring air, and he is glad to feel hope grow within his heart like the first green shoots from the warming earth.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pirate Queen and Thrown from the Breach rock Denerim. Zevran is a very naughty elf. Dorian has an unwelcome reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags: simulated sex act  
> New characters: Halward Pavus (dun-dun-duuuun)

 

* * *

 

“Tried to go forward with my life, I just feel shame, shame, shame […] Shame is the shadow of love.”

 _Shame_ _,_ PJ Harvey ( _Uh Huh Her_ _,_ 2004)

 

* * *

 

 

"Maker, look at her.  She’s… hypnotic.  Like one of those snakes that stare at the defenseless little furry animal before they eat it all up,"  Cullen swallows noisily and Dorian laughs a little.

"It's certainly having an effect on the front rows."  He sees Merrill laugh from behind her kit, and Zevran shoots a grin at her, kicking a lead cable out of his way as he walks slowly back toward the front of the stage.  Alienage Brat have done an excellent job of opening the show, their music a peculiar blend of raucous and melodic, an unusual mixture which nevertheless manages to get most of the crowd dancing.  

 

Then, as the huge crowned skull and crossbones logo of Pirate Queen has materialised on the projector screens at the back of the stage, the crowd has gone ballistic, noise surging forward as the trio had bounded out onto the stage.  Isabela is a dynamic front woman, grinning as she sings, eyes flashing.  She and Zevran share a microphone, making a meal of it in Dorian's opinion, seemingly unable to keep their hands fully occupied with their guitars and their mouths fully occupied with singing.  It's a wonder they don't get more entangled, but Dorian supposes long practice will do that.  

 

Merrill sings along with all the songs, seemingly oblivious to the lascivious goings on in front of her, immersed as she is with her drumming.  She seems to drum with her whole body, throwing herself into it, bouncing up and down on the seat, hardly able to keep herself anchored.   _Maker_ _,_ Dorian thinks, _they look like they're having the time of their lives out there_ _,_ and as he thinks this, Pirate Queen come to their last song.  Zevran holds one hand out to Isabela, the other to his chest, and she says into the microphone, "What's the matter, baby?"  He mime-fans himself and wipes a hand over his forehead, blowing out a breath.  "Aw, are you getting all hot and bothered, cutie..?" Isabela asks, and with that, Zevran pulls the strap of his bass over his head.  

 

A roadie rushes forward, taking the bass from him, and slowly, smiling, Zevran removes his sodden t-shirt, revealing a well-muscled torso, covered in tattoos; a giant depiction of a crow in flight on his back, beautiful patterns, anarchic and strange over his arms and chest.  The crowd goes absolutely wild, and Dorian snorts laughter.  Bull chuckles from over his shoulder as Zevran walks right to the edge of the stage, almost into the outstretched arms of the crowd, holding the t-shirt like an offering.  Bending down, he throws it to a starry-eyed young woman, who immediately colours beet-red and grins as if she will burst.  Kneeling down on the stage, reaching down as far as he can, Zevran reaches toward the young woman; the young woman reaches back.  Dorian watches as the woman continues to stare rapturously at Zevran; he can imagine Zevran's mouth moving, thinks he knows what the invitation will be.  

 

"Come on, you don't get to steal the show like that, Zev!" Isabela chastises, and beckons a roadie of her own over.  She hauls off her own guitar, and immediately pulls up the long white shirt which seems to be all she is wearing apart from her long boots.  "Whoa," Bull gulps and Dorian shoots him a look. "They'll be playing naked if they keep this up."  

 

"I can dream, Dori-baby.  I can only dream," Bull says in a wistful tone, then returns his gaze to Isabela, who is laughing, her skin shining under the lights, blue hotpants and white lace push up bra even brighter against the gorgeous brown of her skin.   "Come on, baby, let's play!  Here it is, Denerim, _Burning Bridges_ _,_ " she addresses to the crowd, who roar enthusiastically.   

 

Merrill yells into her microphone, "Get your bass, Zevvy, you can't play without it!" and he scoots away from the front of the stage, laughing as his roadie runs forward.  Pulling the strap over his head again, he blows a kiss to his chosen fan and nods to Merrill, who counts out a fast four count and then they begin playing.  It is so jubilant, such an energetic and delighted send-off that Dorian cannot help but feel delighted with it himself, managing to lose himself sufficiently in the moment that he forgets both that they are up after this, and that he will have to make conversation with some toadie of his fathers after the show.  He notes that even Cassandra is swaying her hips in time to the music, smiling slightly with her arms folded over her chest.  Then she breathes in and bends toward him to mutter, "We'd better go finish our prep.  They'll do an encore after this, but we don't have much time."

 

-|||-

 

The stage lights fall to darkness after Pirate Queen’s second encore, as planned.  Roadies rush out into the dark, three swarming to the drum kit, refitting and realigning from Merrill’s preferred set up to Bulls.  There is not enough time to replace the entire kit, so they simply re-arrange fundamentals and add more to Merrill’s very stripped down version.  Amplifier heads are switched, guitar effects pedals aligned and leaded in.  Everything runs like clockwork, as well it should.  The crowd mills in the break, occasionally bursts of singing the refrains from the last encore, joyous and discordant refrains of _won’t you tell me what you miss, boy? whoa love, you got me spinning like a wind up toy…_ and then laughter and the song dissipates.  Dorian feels a hot, damp hand on his shoulder and turns to see Isabela standing behind him.  She grins and says in a low voice, “Well, we got them all wet and ready for you, sweetheart.  Enjoy yourself out there!  I can’t wait to see your set!”  She gives his shoulder a squeeze and her eyes flash in the dim light, then she is gone.  Dorian smiles a little and squares his shoulders, moving aside as a roadie carries a load of cabling and a few guitar pedals past him, his face set in grim lines of concentration.  

 

Finally, they have clearance.  The familiar mixture of excitement and nervousness stirs in Dorian’s chest, and he hums a scale under his breath.  Still humming, he walks forward with Cassandra.  As soon as they detect motion on the stage, the crowd noise surges, all articulation lost in the blast of it.  Then, the violent green projections light up the screens behind the band, along with the giant lightning bolts that form part of the Thrown from the Breach imagery, and if anything, the noise increases, wild and almost physical in its presence.  Dorian hauls the guitar strap over his head, pushing his hair back and then asks in a low, seductive tone into the microphone, “Denerim, are you ready for us?”

 

The noise increases still further, a wall of sound as Dorian grins and asks, “Are you sure?”  The noise cannot increase, but it is not for lack of trying, and through his earpiece Dorian hears Bull laugh and count into their first song.  

 

After that, he is lost to the music for some time.  He and Cassandra vamp effortlessly through an extended outro on the track _Never Retreat_ _,_ merging it into the intro for _Throw it All Away_ _._  Cullen laughs as he crosses the stage to Dorian as he sings the refrain for _Salvage_ _,_ putting his back against Dorian’s, almost a comforting presence.  After that, it is _Charms_ which Dorian always looks forward to - it’s been decided that Cassandra plays rhythm during the song, which is a break of sorts for her, and a chance for him to stretch.  Half way through the song, as Dorian is about to launch into his solo, Zevran begins walking purposefully from the wings toward Dorian, putting a hand on Cullen’s back as Cullen nearly steps backward into him.  He passes Cullen, who turns to watch him, looking confused, almost as if this is a joke he doesn’t quite get.  Zevran’s face is alight with mischief, a smirk which threatens to turn into a grin as he reaches Dorian.  Dorian frowns a little, trying to concentrate on his solo, but also wondering what on earth could be going on here.  

 

Wordlessly, Zevran slides his hands up Dorian’s chest then down, standing close, but not so close that it interferes with his guitar-playing.  He grins at Dorian then, looking up into his face, and then kneels, knees open around Dorian’s leg.  His hands circle around to the back of Dorian’s thighs, gripping them, then move up to his arse, fingers looping into the back of Dorian's jeans.  He pulls Dorian’s pelvis closer, his mouth open, pink tongue and white teeth exposed.  Dorian can feel his eyes widen, looking down into the bright copper of Zevran’s eyes, which are alight with mirth. Then his showmanship takes over and he grins down, he makes his guitar squeal in a sudden tone laden with vibrato.  As he continues to look down at Zevran, he staggers forward slightly, wringing a growl and curtailed moan from his guitar.  Zevran grins, curling his tongue between the knuckles of Dorian's  first and second fingers, and Dorian bends a little at the knees, eliciting another whine from the instrument in his hands.  Careful not to poke or punch Zevran accidentally in the face, Dorian raises his head, smiling, his mouth hanging open slightly. He then looks out at the crowd.  Of course, he cannot see them, the bright stage lighting hitting his vision, but as he continues to make his guitar squeal and growl, and feels Zevran licking at his fingers and the back of his hand, he cannot help but smile delightedly at the chaotic upsurge in noise from them.  

 

Almost as soon as he arrives, Zevran is up off his knees again, quickly planting a chaste kiss on Dorian’s cheek and bounding off stage, laughing and waving to the crowd as he does.  He pinches Cassandra on the arse as he passes her, and she aims a kick at him which is, thankfully for him, a little way from connecting.  She looks bemusedly at Dorian as Zevran prances back into the wings, the crow on his back almost seeming to move with his musculature.  Dorian snickers and shrugs, before looking back out at the crowd and continuing with the song.

 

-|||-

 

“That was fuckin’ hilarious!”  Bull says, and then raises his eyebrows as he growls, “And fuckin’ hot too, you and Zev make a seriously pretty picture.”  He rubs the towel across his face and around the back of his neck, then leaves it hanging across his shoulders.  Then he frowns and asks, looking over Dorian’s shoulder, “Hey.  Help you with something, man?”

 

“Dorian?” As Dorian turns to look over his shoulder, he realises that it is his father who has addressed him.  For an instant, he feels like he’s stopped breathing and then he says, as calmly as he can around lungs which seem molten with rage and through the dread which constricts his throat, just the one word: “Father.” A beat of silence, and then Dorian asks, trying to make it sound as accusatory as possible, “Then the story about the family retainer was a lie?”

 

His father looks almost nervous, more nervous than Dorian has ever seen him, unsure and unsteady.  Older.  For an instant, Dorian almost pities him, and then he rallies.  His father takes a deep breath, then looks at Bull with nothing but contempt on his face. Dorian can almost see him go from being _father_ to _Magister Halward Pavus_ before his very eyes.  The transformation does not do his confidence any favours and then Halward looks to Dorian and says, “You were told then.  Did you read the email?”  He exhales and looks away for a moment, then looks back at Dorian to ask, “Is there somewhere where we may speak more privately?”

 

Bull starts to speak, his voice low and calming, but Dorian interrupts him to say, “No.  This was your choice of venue for this conversation.  It’s nice to know I get my sense of the dramatic from somewhere.”

“C’mon, Dorian,” Bull murmurs, “You want Varric to write about this?  You wanna see an article in _Philliam_?”

“Almost, yes.”  His father looks stricken, and Dorian bites his lower lip before heaving a sigh and gesticulating to an unused dressing room, one that neither band had claimed.  “Come on then.  In here.”

 

As Halward enters the small dressing room, Dorian feels Bull’s hand on his shoulder.  “Hey,” Bull tells him, his tone low still, but neutral, “You want me for anything, I’m just out here.  I’ll make sure you guys aren’t disturbed too.  But let me know, okay?  Don’t stand on ceremony - you want him gone, he’s gone.”  Then Bull takes his hand away.  Dorian glances over his shoulder and mutters his thanks, his back and neck tight with tension.  Then the door closes behind him and Dorian barely resists the urge to bolt, to throw the door open again, to avoid the situation.  But he steels himself and allows anger to worm through his chest.  “What is this, father?  Ambush?  Kidnapping?” He pauses and frowns, then adds, “Warm family reunion?”

 

Halward only sighs.  “Dorian,” he says, his voice low, and Dorian is astonished all over again by the shake that he hears underneath it.  His father is turned into an old man, aged in the relatively short space of time that they have been apart, but when he continues, his voice is stronger, “Dorian, it’s always this way with you.  I only came to talk.”

 

Dorian inhales then tells him, “So, talk. But considering you lied to get me here, I think I have every right to be furious about it.”

“Your mother and I… we just want you to come home.  Dorian, you have to understand, it’s been terrible for us, for us both, not knowing where you are, what you’re doing.  We read things on the Internet, about what you’re doing, who you’re with and…”

 

“How charming.  You know you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet, Father.  And as for who I’m with… when will you be able to get it through your thick skull,” Halward bristles at that, but Dorian is rapidly losing the tenuous grip that he’s managed to maintain on his temper, “when will you be able to understand that I prefer the company of men.  As in _sex_ _._ ”

 

“I understand that, Dorian.  And I am not here to debate the question of who you prefer to,” a pause, awkward hesitation, “spend your time with.  Your uncalled-for display with that elf on stage…”

“That _uncalled-for display_ was something that you chose to witness, after you lured me here…”

 

Abruptly, Halward changes conversational tack, opening his arms wide as he asks, “You must think of the future, sometime, surely?  And surely you must know that it won’t be easy for you, if you decide to flaunt your preferences.  Already your mother has resigned her membership with the bridge club because of your shameful behaviour.  You will stand to inherit nothing, because you refuse to wed - and will therefore never be able to produce an heir…”

 

“What makes you think I give a damn about that?   _Any_ of that?  My _problem_ with this whole arrangement is that you expect me to not only live my own life in misery, but to make someone else miserable by lying to them!” Dorian pauses, fists clenched, breathing heavily, then hisses, “You were the one who taught me to stand up for what I believe in.  Well, Father, I believe in truth.  If I have the choice between a life that forces me to give up who I am, to lie to the people I love in order to make things easier for myself, and a life which is hard, and unfair, and sometimes brutal, but honest, then I will choose the latter.  Every time.”  He looks away from his father, struggling to contain the rage and the disappointment that rises like bile, threatening to overwhelm him at any second.  Eventually, he continues, “You didn’t believe in me enough not to try to change…” and his voice breaks at that, he hates himself for the show of weakness, but it does, and he takes a deep breath and continues through it, “You tried to change me.  Make me less than what I am.”  Another pause, and then he asks his father, almost against his will, "I'm proud of who I am. Why can't you be?"

 

His father is silent, watching him, seemingly without words.  Finally, he mutters, “I only wanted what was best for you.”

“No, no you didn’t,” Dorian sets his jaw and stares at his father, hardly believing that he has heard those words come from his mouth.  He shakes his head a little and says with his voice full of vitriol, “You only wanted what was best for you.  For your fucking legacy.  You would rather have had me desperately unhappy, or…”  He pauses, then chokes out, “or a drooling imbecile than have anything stand in the way of continuing the family name, this pathetic genetic heritage you’re so fucking proud of.  You disgust me.”

 

Halward hangs his head and leans against a nearby chair, as if he is steadying himself.  The atmosphere feels thick, almost as if the very air itself will burst from the tension.  Finally, in a voice so small Dorian barely makes it out, Halward says, “Once, I had a son who trusted me.  A trust I betrayed.  I only wanted to talk to you, Dorian.  I… I only wanted to see you again, to make sure that you were alright.”  He pauses, runs a hand through his greying hair and says, his voice almost bordering on tears, “But this… neither of us will bend, I fear.  We are alike in that at least - too much pride.  But, Maker help me, this is not what I wanted.”

 

Dorian swallows.  Part of him almost breaks then, nearly broaches the gulf of the three or four paces between them.  But then he remembers the accusations, the arguments and the final straw, that awful episode in Asariel.  Then he mutters, “I never am what you want me to be.  You would have done well to remember that, before you wasted both our time with this farce.”  Pausing, he lifts his chin and clenches his jaw before saying, “I’m sure you can find your own way out.”  Then he turns and strides from the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of things!  
> \- if you guessed that I was using the David Bowie/Mick Ronson "guitar fellatio" controversy in 1972 (during the Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars tour) for the basis of what happens between Dorian and Zevran, then gold star!  
> \- The song that the crowd are singing is actually [Hot Kiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-2WDcCT3YeM) by Juliette and the Licks (from the album 'Four on the Floor'). Juliette Lewis sings a lot like I imagine Isabela singing (also... whoa stage presence).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get messy. Varric asks questions. So does Dorian.

 

* * *

 

“Glass and petrol, vodka, gin / it feels like breathing methane / throw yourself from skin to skin / and still it doesn’t dull the pain…”

 _Come Home_ _,_ Placebo ( _Placebo_ _,_ 1996)

 

* * *

  

“Dorian.   _Dorian_ _._  Wait up, man!” But Dorian is deaf to everything but the blood pulsing in his ears, the screaming of his nerves, the brittle thrum of ambient magic coursing in his hands.  Blindly, he stalks down the corridor outside the abandoned dressing room, down the length of the wings, shouldering through the knots of people who are milling about backstage.  He only vaguely sees the looks that people cast in his direction; just as distantly, he hears Bull say his name again as he hurries away.

 

But the crowds are thick backstage, movement constant, and Dorian has only one thing in mind - a little oblivion seems in order.  It's not difficult to find, or it never has been before, and his needs are not elaborate.  He smirks as he remembers Zevran's soft lips on his hand when they had met during soundcheck, the feel of his hot hands on his chest, the pink tongue darting over his knuckles onstage, and his stomach knots, mouth filling with anticipatory saliva.  He pushes past a group of security staff arguing about something and makes his way to the green room that Pirate Queen have occupied.

 

"...Don't care about the not being consulted thing, Kitten," Isabela is slurring as he enters, waving a half-empty bottle of vodka in her left hand for effect, "What Hawke doesn’t understand is, a fuckin' piece of wood could play those bass lines..."

 

"Oh Izzy, we don't need to talk about that now, surely?  Oh!" Merrill turns, jumping off Isabela's lap as she does, and practically skipping over to Dorian, enveloping him in an enthusiastic hug.  He squeezes her with one arm, somewhat surprised by the affectionate gesture, and Merrill looks up at him, grinning.  "Gosh, you were good!  Really good!  Did you plan that thing with Zevran?  Oh, that was funny!"  Her grin diminishes somewhat and she asks him, "What's wrong, Dorian?"

 

"What's wrong is he doesn't have a drink in his hand, Kitten!  Or maybe,"  And here Isabela looks at Dorian, her dark eyes knowing and mischievous, light glinting from the golden ring in her lip, the heavy toque around her neck, "He's lookin’ for something else? Or perhaps… someone else? Some little elf, perhaps, one that could turn even a Chantry mother's thoughts to the profane?"

 

Merrill looks confused, and then asks her, "Are we talkin' about Zev here?  Is this still to do with drinking? I never even saw a Chantry mother take a drink.  Do they?  Maybe Seb would know?  We must be talkin' about Zevran.  Oh, do you want to have sex with him?"  She turns her luminous green eyes up to Dorian, and he laughs despite himself.  Merrill continues to look at him, an expression of polite enquiry on her face, and he looks past the top of her head to Isabela.  "Is she always like this?"

"Always," Isabela confirms, and nods once.  "Zev'll be back soon.  He mighta just gotten a bit..." she waves the vodka bottle in the air again for effect and then grins as she says, "waylaid.  It happens.  Or it happens to Zev, anyway.  But he left his jacket here," and she gestures to a very fine-looking leather jacket, gunmetal grey with slightly lighter, almost silvery topstitching, "and that means he'll be back."

 

"Waylaid.  I see."  Dorian sniffs and looks around the room at nothing in particular.  There is an awkward silence before Merrill asks, "Where's the rest of Thrown?  Are they still here?  I want to talk to Bull again, he's so funny.  But I think I made him feel weird."  Without asking, she has poured Dorian a very large measure of whiskey, and she hands this to him with a grin, which he returns before taking the bottle from her other hand.  Isabela laughs and says, “Wise man.”  Merrill looks pleasantly bemused before her expression changes and she says, "Oh no, you don't need to say anything about Bull!  I know you like him, he'd be hard not to like!  Oh no, there I go again...."

 

"No, Merrill, it's fine."  Dorian sniffs at the whiskey and then takes a swallow.  He’s sure, he has no idea what Merrill might be talking about; what on earth does she mean about Bull being hard not to like?  Surely the obvious, but...  "I suppose I'm avoiding them.  A little.  I don't really want to talk about it."

 

Merrill opens her mouth, looking puzzled, but Isabela overrides her to say, "None of our business anyway, isn't that right, Kitten?"  She lays particular stress on the last word, and Merrill turns and smiles at her, somewhat gratefully.  Before Dorian can change the track of the conversation, however, the door opens and a gruff, Kirkwall-accented voice says, "Hey, did you start the party without me again, Daisy?  And look what I found in the mens room..."

 

"Indeed, dear friends, I have returned; look who the dwarf dragged in," Zevran grins around the room, but Dorian suspects he sees something like surprise in his gaze when Zevran finally looks at him.  He smiles, all teeth and no humour, taking a drink without dropping his gaze.  Zevran returns the gaze and the smile, arching one eyebrow slightly.  Then his lips part, and the expression changes, just for a moment, to one of naked want, so blatant that Dorian almost feels as if he's begun where he left off onstage.  While all this is transpiring, Isabela and Merrill have been conversing with the newcomer, and Dorian is only called back to his presence by Isabela saying his name and asking, "Have you ever met Varric Tethras?"

 

Dorian looks at the dwarf, surprised out of his reverie by the name.  You want Varric should write about this? Bull asks him again in his mind, and Dorian suddenly clicks.  "Serah Tethras, so nice to meet you.  Dorian..."

"Pavus, Dorian Pavus - yeah, Sparkler, I know who you are.” _Sparkler?_ Dorian thinks, but Varric continues, stating, “And it's Varric, okay?  Nobody ever calls me Serah Tethras unless they're trying to get out of paying me money..."

"...does that mean that Fenris calls you that all the time, then?" Merrill laughs, and Varric smirks and continues, "But I just swung by your dressing room to see if I could get an interview with you guys, and noone was there.  What the fuck?  Are you all too busy bein' famous to throw a quote to us poor workin' journalists?"

 

"Give me strength, Tethras," Isabela moans, "You're at least as famous as anyone in this room, and the last time you worked at journalism..." she makes air quotes around the word, "was when Fader were slumming it, gigging in the Hanged Man every other weekend for free beer."

"So a while ago then,"  Varric says dryly, accepting a plastic cup from Merrill.  He sips at the liquid, and makes a satisfied grimace.  He then looks up at Dorian, his eyes bright, curious, and Dorian narrows his own eyes in suspicion.  "So, any ideas?  Where is Thrown from the Breach?  Or Throwing out the Breeches, as that Sera girl from Bees! likes to call you."

 

Dorian takes a deep drink before replying, buying time to gather his thoughts.  He can feel the alcohol begin to do its work, but there is something in the back of his mind that wishes it would work faster.  Really, he could care less about how messy he gets, with or without one of the most well known rock critics in Thedas in the room.  It's all starting to seem a little bit too much like hard work, frankly, but he is too tenacious (too much pride, no that's not me, that's not me) to give up on a night of debauchery at this stage; he feels he is owed at least one night by the universe at large.  "I'm not sure," he tells Varric, feeling a tiny twinge of guilt when he thinks of Bull, wonders if he is looking for him, then internally rolls his eyes at himself.  As if.  "Still, I'm sure that I saw Josephine milling about earlier.  Last time I checked, she was camp mother."

 

"Camp mother.  Sure."  Varric chuckles, and asks, "Any truth to the rumours that you've been in talks with Imperium again?"

"Really?  We're doing this now?"  Dorian is suddenly annoyed, and he huffs out a quick breath.  "Look, I will answer questions, but not now, alright?  It's been a long night..."

"Anything to do with that guy I saw you talkin' to earlier?  That seemed intense..."

 

"Varric!  Andraste's Tits, man, leave the guy alone!"  Isabela raises an eyebrow at him and laughs, but even Dorian can tell she's annoyed as well, "Don't you ever switch off?  Anyway, you know the rules; if you didn't come to party, you know the way out."

 

Varric flaps a hand at her and then the door opens again.  "Hey, this is where it’s all at!"  Bull's voice booms around the room, and suddenly, the smallish room is full of people and noise and movement.  Dorian takes the opportunity to have another long drink from what he is rapidly coming to realise is actually extremely good whiskey, smiling a little when he thinks that things might be beginning to go his way - that is, until he is suddenly surrounded by three star-struck young women, who insist on taking pictures with him and chattering away ninety-to-the-dozen.  He stomachs this for a few minutes, his manners keeping him smiling weakly and nodding in what he hopes is the right places, but manages to extricate himself when Cullen strolls up to ask him how he is and the women turn their fawning gaze to him instead.  

 

He smirks at Cullen's bemused, worried look as he sidles away, and because he is possibly a little bit drunk, but mostly because the room is very crowded, he smacks into Bull's back.  "Hey, Dorian!"  Bull says - he is loud, but then he always is, and then he looks at Dorian, their eyes meet, and Dorian feels suddenly like he has been stripped bare.  It’s got to be the alcohol, it’s just got to be, because… Dorian swallows, thinks he sees something in Bull's eye which is shocked, something which seems like he is seeing Dorian for the first time, and then... then it is gone, the scarred face closes up again, the expression becoming just blankly joyful and nothing more.  Bull grins at him, and quickly slings an arm over Dorian's shoulder, saying "This guy, right?  Am I right, Izzy?"

 

"You're right, big boy."  Isabela grins at Dorian from under Bull's other arm, and tells him, "I'm not sure what about, but whatever it is, I make it a point never to argue with qunari.  Not these days, anyway."

Bull laughs, and Dorian looks up at him, wrinkling his nose, "Maker, Bull you smell _horrific_ _._  I'd make a comparison, but I really don't think that there is any smell analogous to that in the known universe."

"Yeah, I'm a unique snowflake, alright."  Bull raises his arm for a second, sniffs at his armpit, then shrugs, "Everyone likes their own brand, I guess."

"Revolting.  Why must you insist on conforming to every single drummer stereotype known to man?"

 

"Because then it’s more surprising when I act out of character, smart guy."  Bull smiles down at Dorian, and despite himself, Dorian smiles back.  Then he rolls his eyes at Bull and mutters, “It would seem your good humour is infectious.  Like gonorrhea.”

"Gonorrhea?  Nah.  Probably something more like... herpes.  Once you got it, it never goes away..."

"Lucky me.  A terminal case of Bull.  I only wish I'd caught it sooner."

"You know what they say, Dorian," Bull laughs, "Wish in one hand and shit in the other - you'll soon see which one gets full first."

 

“What is this, comedy hour?”  Isabela huffs and wiggles out from under Bull’s arm.  She puts her hands on her hips and pouts, “Well, if I'm not the centre of attention any more, I guess I'll just...”

“C'mon, Izzy, don't be like that.”  Bull grins at her, and reaches for her shoulder, possibly meaning to encircle her with his arm again.  But she dances out of his reach, laughing, and nearly backs into Zevran, who has been singing something in Antivan into the ear of a sweaty looking red-haired kid - he can’t be older than twenty, Dorian thinks, as Zevran turns his head and chuckles at Isabela.  “Bela, Bela,” he sings teasingly at her, and she elbows him and laughs, pivoting neatly, encircling her own arms around the redhead's waist.  

 

“Aw, red-heads,” Bull mutters, and he sounds a little disappointed.  Dorian laughs, much louder than he’d intended, and loses his footing for no apparent reason.  This only makes him laugh harder, whoa, Maker, but Bull’s arm is around him, and he keeps laughing, someone is singing, and Bull mutters in his ear, hot and damp breath against the shell of it, “Dorian, hey, c’mon.  Y’alright?”

 

Words clang around his head, devoid of context, and he realises he’s singing, that’s him, singing the chorus of an old Fader song, _shadows of the morning light, the shadows of the evening sun, till the shadows and the light were one_ _._  Bull laughs in his ear, and Dorian knows his arms are around Bull’s waist, he’s pressing into this huge mountainous beast-man, right here in front of the Maker and everyone, and part of him is appalled at himself, but some other part just… keeps hearing that song in his head, sees the slightly sickening tilt of the room, feels the sweat on the back of his neck, and he knows what he wants all of a sudden.  “Bull,” he says, not daring to look up, just hoping that Bull can hear him above the general tumult of the room, “Will you take me home?  Please?”  And Bull grunts, somewhere near a sound of approval, and keeping his arm around Dorian’s shoulders, begins to make his way through the crowds.

 

Dorian manages to restrain himself through the trip back to the hotel, but things are becoming hazier; he can still feel the tidal sweeps of anger at his father, receding and then surging back, swelling into his consciousness again, before slinking back to the edges.  The alcohol has done nothing to blunt the despair that the anger brings with it, and that makes him all the more determined to take full advantage of whatever it is that he can wring out of Bull.  And there it is, tiny, exultant, but woefully juvenile, the satisfaction that the idea of sleeping with Bull would be the most shocking, hurtful thing that he could possibly do; the more brazen he is about it, the worse the slight against his family would be.  He sniffs and grins a little, pushing the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach aside to concentrate on the heat of Bull’s hand in his own, the motion of one foot in front of the other.

 

But when Bull lifts him, there in the half-dark room, the dead swell of night around them in the hotel room, the strange chemical stink of cleaning products and the generic watercolour print on the wall, it's all Dorian can do not to bury his head into the mass of muscle at the qunari's neck and cry.  Bull seems to sense that something is amiss, because he pulls back a fraction from Dorian's body, where he is holding Dorian between his own bulk and the wall, and narrows his eye; questioning without saying anything.  Dorian swallows quickly. "Just... don't talk.  Don't ask any questions, don't say anything at all, alright?  Can you do that?  For me?"

 

Bull frowns slightly, seems to make an assessment of Dorian's face, then shrugs and nods.  "I guess," he says. "But..." and then he stops, considering, still looking at Dorian.  "Can I ask one thing, just to be sure?"

 

Dorian thinks, just for a moment, allowing his hands to play over the massive chest, feeling completely secure, lodged as he is between the wall and Bull, his legs wrapped around the qunari's hips.  Feigning some of his usual confidence, he arches his pelvis up, rubbing himself over Bull's half-hard cock, a little intimidated all of a sudden at the sheer bulk of it.  Then, he asks pointedly, "Is it a question about this?  The answer is yes, in case I hadn't made myself clear."

 

"That's good to know," Bull says, his voice rumbling deep in his chest, "But my real question is this: Is this something you need, or is it something you want?"

Without really thinking, Dorian replies, "Both.  I want you to fuck me, if you want to.  I think we've already established that, anyway.  I need you to fuck me, I need someone to fuck me, because... because..." _this hole in my heart has to be filled by something, and at least it'll make me forget for a little while_ _,_ he was about to say, but pulls up short.  He narrows his eyes, then asks Bull, "Time for a question for you: are we doing this, or just talking about it?"

 

And Bull smiles at that, a smile of such a terrifying mixture of emotions that Dorian can hardly stand to look at it.  So he closes his eyes against everything, the look on Bull's face in the quarter light, the creeping feeling of awkwardness at what tomorrow might bring, the singsong lift of the little voice inside that says _too much pride, too much pride, once I had a son that trusted me, once I did, but no more, too much pride, he loved me once, but no more._  He gives himself up to the pure sensation of everything, tug at the waist of his jeans, huge, warm hands on his skin, a tongue flicking the ring in his nipple, a gasp.  The dim light is gone, the anonymity of the room is gone, the world is gone; reduced to sweaty hands, slide of skin and lube, tangled cotton sheets, lips and teeth and tongue and fingers; curled toes, a long moan, a short, wordless cry, the sweat, slick heat, spit and come.  Finally, sleep takes him; he knows no more, and gladly.

 

-|||-

 

Cold, he awakens.  Maker, his head aches, he feels rubbed raw, skinless somehow.  And the world comes clawing back into his mind, wretched and brazen; the whole of last night crawls into his mind at once, and he groans, swallows, feels sick.  He rolls off the chilly, damp mess of sheets and stumbles, heading for the small fridge in the corner of the room.  Opening it, he sees tiny bottles of alcohol arranged in rows; without a second thought, he catches up the first one and unscrews the cap, the clicks as the seal breaks loud as gunshots.  

 

He downs the entire bottle in two swallows and grimaces as his stomach tries to reject it.  He feels horrible, hungover, wrung out and emotionally wrecked to boot.  And then, his gaze shifts, and he sees… there, on the end table, they weren’t there before.  He stirs himself, rises, the alcohol forgotten as he approaches the flowers, white and trembling in the warm breeze of the air conditioning.  Laughing a little, he rubs a velvet soft petal between thumb and forefinger, then looks at the little bottle of pills next to it - aspirin.  Written in looping cursive, ponderous yet elegant are the words _feel better, Dorian ._ No signature, but he doesn’t need one to know who they’re from.  Slowly, he releases the petal from between his fingers, licking his lips and tasting Bull’s sweat.  The fingers curl in on themselves and he turns his head away from the blooms, reluctantly, but picks up the little bottle of pills.  He begins walking towards the shower.  He clenches his hands into fists along the way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Dorian attributes to Fader is actually ['Three Days'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SmvG2GZ3S7o) by Jane's Addiction. It's from the 1990 album, Ritual de lo Habitual.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian tries not to hope. Bull and Cassandra go missing for a bit. Varric puts his foot in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new characters this chapter (though we hear a bit more about RDVD)  
> New tags: lyrium addiction symptoms; Varric has a big mouth.

* * *

 "Anger precedes my footsteps, haunting past comes into head, horizon seems so far away..."

 _Where Strides the Behemoth_ , Mastodon ( _Remission_ , 2014)

* * *

 

 

It’s hard to see the fine print with dark glasses on. But who is he kidding anyway - the book is a prop, nothing more than that, as much as a signal for the outside world to fuck off as the headphones which are not playing anything. He sees the curious glances cast his way from the corner of his eye, and scrunches his knees up tighter against the cover of the book, digging his heels into the cushion of the armchair in the foyer. He doesn’t want to speak to anyone, has managed to avoid the rest of the band all day. It’s not that he feels he's done anything to regret with Bull, though he does wonder if things will change, wonders what, if, there will be an expectation or a... He sighs, remembering the flowers, and squirms, caught between hope and a horrible, despondent nervousness. _He was just being nice_ , he reminds himself, _don’t let it get weird. No-one’s making a playlist here._

 

It might be an hour later, but then again, perhaps not. The sky is louring, heavy with cloud, and the windows of the foyer are polarised, making everything darker. Dorian might have fallen asleep again, as he comes back from a strange thought process, almost a memory, of he and his father laughing over something. In his memory, he was amazed at how loud his father had laughed, how proud he had been of having been the cause of the smile and bellow, the crinkled eyes, how the left hand, gold ring gleaming, had reached out and clasped his shoulder. But then he comes back to himself, and it is not his father but Cullen’s hand on his shoulder. "Oh. Shit, sorry. Were you asleep?"

Cullen chuckles a little and sits on the edge of the chair opposite Dorian's. Perhaps, Dorian thinks, he did sleep, but he doesn't really know enough to say. So he shrugs in response to Cullen's query, and Cullen smiles. "Were you busy?"

"Not exactly," Dorian replies, reluctant to fully commit to an answer in case he's invited to talk about his feelings or anything that happened last night. "Good," Cullen says, "Because I'm going to need all the help I can get." Dorian frowns and Cullen sighs. "Josie called - apparently Varric Tethras has been onto her about an interview. She organised with him to meet us here, but Cassandra's gone and buggered off, and Bull isn't answering his door or his cell. Jerks, the lot of them, Josie and Varric included," he says ruefully, then turns the full brunt of an utterly hangdog expression onto Dorian. Dorian laughs a little. "I believe the phrase 'festis bei umo canavarum' would be useful to you here."

"Feisty bubo... caveman?"

"Festis bei umo canavarum," Dorian repeats and Cullen mouths the words along with him, looking puzzled, before Dorian explains, "It means 'you will be the death of me.'"

"Sounds about right," Cullen says, and sighs. Then he laughs and asks, "What about 'eat shit and die'? Have you got a fancy Tevene phrase for that?"

"Nothing like the classics," Dorian laughs, and then arches his eyebrow and asks, "What do you need help with, exactly?"

 

"Well, the interview's not for another hour. I'm thinking that if you spot either of them coming back, then you text me, and grab them, keep 'em here. I'll check with Lace, and Josie, get them to check the places that I know both the king and queen jerk would go to. And if we find them, we'll text you." Cullen sighs again, and then mutters, "Don't know why I'm the one worrying about this. It should be up to Josie. She's the one that bloody organised it."

"So... your plan involves me sitting here? Waiting?" Dorian grins and then shrugs, "Bit of a stretch of my talents, but I'm sure I can pull something incredible together."

Cullen makes a noise of assent, then glances sidelong at Dorian, "Of course, if it all goes tits up... you might have to do the interview solo." He seems to be expecting resistance, but Dorian merely flaps his hand and chuckles. Already he feels better.

"Dear Cullen, you are aware that I am well and truly able to expound on any number of topics for an almost interminable period? We have conversed before, correct?"

"Correct," Cullen smiles as he rises, and then asks slyly, "Is that a fancy way of saying you can talk shit for hours, if need be?"

"Give that man the door prize," Dorian grins back at him, then stretches his legs out in front of him and puts his hands behind his head, sunglasses still on. He gives Cullen his most dazzling smile, and Cullen shakes his head as he snorts laughter.

"Go get them, tiger," Dorian tells him, grinning. Cullen begins to walk away, then turns back to him and stares for a few seconds, before he rubs the back of his neck and asks quickly, "Uh... since you're in a helpful mood, I'm seeing Last Warden Standing tomorrow night." He pauses for so long that Dorian thinks that perhaps that statement was the entire point of it, but as he goes to say how nice for you, Cullen mutters, "Do you want to come with me?"

 

This is new. Before he can help himself, Dorian has remembered the photographs in Cullen's old room, that strange possessive kiss of years ago. Behind his glasses, his eyes widen slightly, then narrow. What could be the angle here? Cullen is not a hard read - he's obviously nervous, but Dorian can't tell if it's just social awkwardness or a degree of lust which is making him this way. In any case, it makes no matter, at least not for the time being, so he smiles at Cullen and tells him, "I'd be delighted. I've never seen them live."

 

“Okay. Cool. Okay.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck again, then raises his other hand to his hair, pulling it back into both hands and letting it go again. He looks at Dorian for a brief moment longer, seems to want to say something, but then turns and quickly strides away. As Dorian watches him go, he’s unable to help muttering under his breath, “That was weird.” He scratches his cheek, pushes his sunglasses a little further up his nose, and then turns back around in his chair, ready to perform his appointed task.

-|||-

 

Cassandra had arrived back first, about twenty minutes after Cullen had left. Dorian had nabbed her stalking back through the foyer, clutching a brown paper bag marked Wonders of Thedas in purple lettering on the front. Quickly, he had told her about the imminent interview, and she had given such a violent noise of distaste that he was sure that she’d dislodged something in her throat. But then she’d shrugged, asked him to give her a few moments to put her … things… in her room (having gone very shifty indeed when she’d been forced to draw even the remotest bit of attention to whatever was in the bag), and then promised to meet him back in the foyer. Dutifully, Dorian had texted Cullen, and been rewarded with a reply almost immediately, saying _comin bk now J has Bull cornered hahaha_ , and chuckled to himself.

 

In the end, it all works out so that they appear more organised than they actually are when Tethras does eventually arrive, nearly half an hour late. Bull and Josephine barely made it of course, and almost as soon as Bull has settled himself into the chair beside Dorian he mutters, “Hey, Dorian, about last night…”

Dorian blows an irritated breath out his nose and glares at Bull from the corner of his eye. “Discretion. Better part of valour, you know. Thank you for the flowers, by the way.”

Bull grins and chuckles, “I thought I was being discrete. Didn’t say anything in front of Varric, did I? And you’re welcome.” When Dorian remains silent, pretending to concentrate on whatever it is that Josie is telling them about subjects she’s ruled as being off-limits, Bull mutters, “So I'm guessing from that, it was a one time thing. Or a three-time thing, to be accurate. Just wanted to see where you stood. Don’t worry,” he says, suddenly serious, “I won’t say anything. Unless you do first.”

 

“Unless who does first?” Josephine asks, and then looks at Bull rather crossly. Dorian smiles smugly and then raises his eyebrows in a questioning way at Bull, who grins at Josie. “Unless Dorian does first. About him not being in any kind of conversation with Imperium. I got this, Boss.”

“Hmm,” Josephine tells him, shaking her head and smiling. She doesn’t look entirely confident, but then there is a knock on the door and Varric pokes his head around it, grinning. “Not interrupting any kind of indoctrination session, am I?”

 

“No, of course, Varric. Come in,” Josephine tells him, and he does, striding in as if he owns the room. This is a portion of the room that Josephine is staying in, and the five of them are rather cramped on the tiny sofa and uncomfortable hard chairs. Already Dorian feels twitchy, having been sitting in the foyer for most of the day, and he shifts restlessly as Varric sets up a battered dictaphone. “Force of habit,” the dwarf laughs, gesturing to the device, “This baby’s been with me so long I’ve even given her a name. But this isn’t about me and my peculiarities,” and with that, he depresses the record button and says, “Hey, thanks for doing this at such short notice, guys. But I gotta ask, Thrown from the Breach, what did you think of the gig last night? Happy with it? You should be.”

 

Silence for a moment. Nobody seems willing to take the plunge, so Dorian leaps in, stating, “Of course. Denerim supplied a charming crowd, we couldn’t have asked for better. And Alienage Brat were excellent, Pirate Queen were spectacular…”

Varric laughs, and asks, “Yeah, what the hell happened with Zevran Arainai doing a little performance piece on you in the middle of that song… Charms, was it? Did you guys organise that beforehand?”

Dorian laughs and inclines his head then says, “That would be telling, Varric, now wouldn’t it?”

Varric chuckles, lowering his head.“Kinda the point of an interview, isn’t it? To tell me stuff?” He pauses, “First time you’ve had a guy pretend to suck you off on stage?”

“First time for everything, I suppose,” Dorian shrugs, and Cassandra goes to say something, but Varric is leaning forward now, and he barrells right over the top of her to say, “And what would you say to people who might say that that kind of deliberate sexual posturing is just a pathetic grab for headlines? Or perhaps even damaging to both Thrown from the Breach’s reputation and to the reputation of Inquisition Records?”

 

Dorian draws breath, but Bull beats him to it. “Varric,” Bull purrs, “You might have missed the memo, but we never claimed to be family friendly. If people wanna get their panties in a bunch about it, I’d suggest it says more about them than it does about either Dorian, us as a band, or Inquisition. As for it being an attention grab…” Bull shrugs, “Since it happened on stage, I’d like to think we already had their attention.”

Varric nods, then arches an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he mutters, then continues, “So, I guess why I wanted this interview, is that there’s been a pretty alarming amount of rumours goin’ around. Aside from the shenanigans last night, which I’m gonna get back to, if we have time...”

“Joy upon joys,” Dorian mutters, and Bull cracks a smile. “I really just wanted to see if I could get some comment on some stuff. But first, you mind answering some questions about the new formation?”

Cassandra sighs and tells him, “Just ask your questions, Varric, and have done with it.”

 

“You always were a peach to interview, Seeker,” Varric smiles at her, then asks as he pulls his feet up on the chair to sit cross-legged on it, “Things changed much, in terms of dynamics? What’s it like working with these guys, Dorian? What’s it like working with someone else, someone who wasn’t formational to the band, the way Lily was?”

Bull looks around at the others, and says, “I got no complaints. Gotta say I wasn’t real convinced at the start, but things seem to be working out. Dorian’s certainly come through a bit of a trial by fire, especially that Lothering gig. He stepped up big time for that.”

Cassandra nods, and tells Varric, almost unwillingly, “He’s not Lily, obviously. But he’s… Dorian is a very gifted guitarist, and he’s certainly come through. I’m looking forward to writing with him, that will be interesting…” “So no attempts at material for a new album yet?”

“I’ve got a few ideas percolating,” Dorian tells Varric, and Cassandra shoots him a pleasantly surprised look, “I thought we might return to something a little more basic, especially after Lothering.” Cassandra smiles broadly, and Varric chuckles and tells her, “You always were shit at keeping your face shut, Seeker. I like the enthusiasm. Sounds like it’ll be a good process, if nothing else, and if you guys kill like you did last night, it’ll be a good album too.” He jots a note to himself in the pad open on his lap, and smiles down at the page. Then he looks up sharply at Dorian. "Anything to add?”

 

Dorian frowns at Varric, then says, “Not really. I’ve enjoyed working with the rest of the band; I feel like we’re doing good work, and that we have a good dynamic.” He purses his lips and glances at Cullen, before saying to Varric, “I notice you’ve not asked Cullen anything…” Varric snorts and says, “That’s because I’m trying to keep on his good side.” With that cryptic statement, Varric inhales and looks at Cassandra, “Last time we met, Seek Truth, O Maker’s Children! had just broken up. You were pretty ratty with me, as I recall…” Cassandra’s nostrils flare and she lifts her chin a little bit, but otherwise her expression remains unchanged as Varric continues, “But I wanted to say that, all rock god fawning aside, I think that you guys are doing good work here.” He swallows and looks between the four of them each in turn as he says, “What you’ve got going on with this group, now, is possibly the best work I’ve seen in the medium for a long time. I’m really interested to see where you guys take this with the present line up.”

 

Bull claps his hands together, clasping them under his chin. “Hear that, guys!” he gushes, “He likes us! He really likes us!” And with that, he breaks out into loud guffaws of laughter. After a moment of stunned silence, Dorian and Varric both join in, then Cullen, then Cassandra. “You are such an idiot, Tiny,” Varric tells him, then once the laughter has died down again, Varric scratches his shoulder through the red plaid of his shirt and asks, “What’s it like, working with a guy from Tevinter? Kinda challenging, I’d wager?”

Bull only shakes his head. After a moment, he sighs and says, “Nope. I’ve done it before, Varric…”

“Yeah, but Krem’s hardly Dorian…”

“Yeah, I guess.” Bull shrugs and looks at Varric levelly for a moment before telling him, “Guys’ never burnt any orphanages, at least not as far as I’m aware…” He looks at Dorian, “Have you?”

“No,” Dorian tells him, “But there was one time I kicked a puppy. Does that count?”

“See? What’s not to love about sass like that?” Bull laughs, gesturing to Dorian as if he was a prize, “It’s not individuals that make the wars of nations. Anyway, I’ve always been more of a lover than a fighter.”

“Uh huh,” Varric says, sounding entirely unconvinced. He jots another note, checks the tape in the battered little dictaphone, then, looking at Cullen, says quietly, “Mind if I ask you some questions, Curly?”

 

Cullen shifts restlessly, twining a strand of hair around his finger, but he nods, then says, “Sure. Fire away, but I’m going to reserve the right not to answer.”

Varric shrugs, then asks, “What’s the deal with these rumours about Meredith leaving RDVD?”

Cullen takes a deep breath, then mutters, almost inaudibly, “I don’t know. I don’t keep in contact with those guys.”

“Ah well, I guess that was a long-shot,” Varric sighs, then asks, “So you don’t even talk to Lee Samson anymore? Not at all? Thought you guys were buddies from…”

“Yeah, well, we’re not.” Dorian can see the tension, almost visible like it was written across Cullen’s body in black marker felt, as he says, “Next question.”

“O-kay,” Varric says, and blinks twice, “If you liked that, you’ll love this; there’s been quite a lot of talk about additional security for Skyhold this year. Part of that is that the last time RDVD and Fader played in the same location, people died. Any comment on that?”

 

“None, apart from reminding you that I’m not part of RDVD any more,” Cullen spits each word out viciously, from behind clenched teeth, “If you’ve got questions about my work with Thrown from the Breach, I’d love to hear those. Otherwise we’re done.”

“Guess we’re done then,” Varric sighs, and scratches his shoulder again. There is a quiet moment, fraught, before Varric clicks his ballpoint pen twice, jots a note, then says, without looking up, “Dorian, I gotta ask, man - who was that guy I saw you and Bull talking to last night? Is that anything to do with these rumours about Imperium, or is that really all talk? ‘Cause I can put ‘em to rest if you give me a statement.”

Dorian feels the others eyes on him like deadweights. He inhales, smiles and says, “That was my father, attempting a reconciliation, in his own inimitable style. I have no idea about the rumours that I’d been in talks with Imperium; the last I heard from them was through lawyers. So as far as I’m aware it’s probably Erimond fantasising about me again.” He sees Josephine raise her eyebrow and shake her head slightly, but he can't be bothered trying to get Varric to retract it. He shrugs, and asks, “Is that enough of a statement?”

“I guess so - you’re not gonna be drawn on the reconciliation thing?”

“Not on your life, Varric.” Dorian grins at him, though he feels a little more like he’d prefer to scream, “That’s all that you’ll get out of me on the subject, I’m afraid.”

 

“I guess that’s all I have time for too,” Varric says, looking at his watch. “Aw, shit, and all these unanswered questions. Seriously though guys,” he says as he shuffles off the edge of his seat, picking up the dictaphone and clicking it off, “Thanks for the time, I’ll make sure Josie gets a pre-press copy for you. Piece should appear in Everite in a few weeks.”

“Everite?” Cassandra says, eyebrows raised, “I thought you wrote for Philliam?”

“Yeah, Philliam pays the bills,” Varric grins, “But Everite’s got better rock coverage. Not so much gossipy shit as Philliam.” He laughs, then mutters, “Don’t tell ‘em I said that.” He flaps a hand at them, “‘Til we meet again, guys…”

 

“Thank you, Varric,” Dorian says, and Varric grins at him. Cassandra rises from her seat and folds her arms across her chest as she tells the writer, "I'll... walk you out, if you like."

"Sure," he tells her, sounding slightly puzzled, "That'd be... kind of nice. Actually." And he clears his throat, looking a little bit chagrinned, cocky facade falling apart for a moment. But then he smiles, flaps his hand again and walks to the door, Cassandra in his wake.

 

"Hey, Cullen, you alright, man?" Bull asks as soon as they hear the door close. Dorian looks at Cullen and sees that he is definitely not alright; his shoulders are hunched, his expression cold and blank. "Fine," he says, but even his voice sounds terrible, and then he gets up abruptly and says to no-one in particular, "I've... I've got to go. See you guys later."

Bull only looks at him, frowning, and says, "Where you going?"

"Out. For a bit. I'll meet you at the gig."

The door closes behind him, and Bull looks at Josephine carefully before asking her, "You want to run interference on that, Josie, or shall I?"

Josephine nods grimly, brandishes her cell phone and tells him, "I'm way ahead of you, Bull. Thanks for the offer though," and with that, gets up, dialling quickly, and follows Cullen out of the room.

 

There is silence, then Dorian says, "What was that about?"

Bull smiles, though it is grim. "Cullen's not real good at dealing with shit like that; he doesn't like talking about his time with Red Dogs, not if he can help it. But you probably noticed that already. Makes him think about the lyrium." He sighs, pauses briefly and then tells Dorian, "When RDVD were in their heyday, White Chant would basically get 'em anything they wanted. I know Cullen got hooked on lyrium when he was at school - and White Chant just kept those kids going on that as hard as they wanted to go. Because they were so successful, and because the lyrium gave them... I don't know, some sort of stupid bad-boy reputation, they just let 'em carry on, getting worse and worse." He shakes his head and says, "I remember meeting them once, when Lies was on tour. It was at some party or something." He scratches the skin under one horn and continues, "They were incredible - not messy, like you’d kinda expect, but hyper-focussed. Kinda creepy with it. Really intense. That Alrik guy, their drummer, he was fuckin' weird man, cornered me and started blathering about a new world order; he must of made sense to himself, but all I could gather is that this guy was..." He shakes his head, and Dorian detects a faint note of something like anger in his voice. "White Chant never seemed to have any concerns about how those guys were handled, as long as they kept makin' 'em money. You ever read about Meredith's overdose?" When Dorian nods, Bull says, "She was okay before that. Not great, but okay. But after that... she got dangerous. They were just kids when they got famous, those guys. I mean, Cullen's been part of the machine since he was nineteen. I remember all the shit decisions I made at nineteen. But he probably can't."

 

Bull sighs and looks away from Dorian, out of the window at the fading day, "And now... He'll always want that shit. It'll never go away for him. And it'll always be his go-to response when things get bad." Dorian follows Bull's gaze out of the window. The two of them sit there for a moment, and then Bull says, very quietly, "He's his own worst enemy. But then again..." and he looks at Dorian, his expression unreadable, the light from the dying sun casting an orange pallor over the grey skin as he says, "I guess we all are."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen fails to appear. Cassandra and Dorian argue. Bull comes up with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags: Relapse; Drug Use; Arguments; troubled!Cullen (FYI: lots of lyrium symptoms and drug addiction talk in this chapter, so be please be warned if you find that upsetting or triggering)  
> No new characters, though Lysette makes an appearance very briefly.
> 
> Because I don't feel right doing the music credits at the end of this chapter, here they are now:  
> Isabela is singing the Eagles of Death Metal song [Miss Alyssa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Yr1-BBMaMA) from the album 'Peace, Love, Death Metal'.  
> Zevran is singing the Red Hot Chili Peppers song [Cabron](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A0GlnX3illc) from the album 'By the Way'.
> 
> And also, just in case you were wondering what the heck I was talking about, a Schecter is a brand of electric bass guitar. They're quite well known for their heavy metal style basses (my favourite is the Sean Ysault one)

 

* * *

 

"Now here you go again, you say you want your freedom.  Well, who am I to keep you down?” 

Dreams , Fleetwood Mac ( Rumours , 1977)

 

* * *

 

 

Alienage Brat finish their set, right on time.  Dorian can hear the lead singer’s amplified voice, laughing about something as she ramps up the crowd for Pirate Queen, but he is watching Cassandra pace the room like a caged tiger, and does not pay attention to the actual words.  "That  _ fucking _ dwarf..." Cassandra says for the fifth time, and Bull says quietly, "It isn't anything to do with Varric.  C'mon Cass, settle down."

 

"Settle down?   _ Settle down _ ?  We have about forty five minutes to locate our bass player, who has gone off who knows where, could be..." She makes an effort and lowers her voice, "He could be anywhere right now, and you tell me to  _ settle down _ ?"  Cassandra bites her lip, fists clenched as she stares at Bull, almost shaking with tension.  Bull shrugs in response. "He'll be fine.  Josie will find him.  It'll be fine."

Cassandra continues to stare at him, and then she clenches her jaw and looks distraught.  "Maker," she mutters and then turns abruptly as the door opens and a worried looking Josephine enters the room, Cullen not far behind her.

 

"Where the  _ fuck _ where you?" Cassandra rounds on him immediately, and he shakes his head and blinks at her.  "Just... out," he says, and even to Dorian he sounds sharper, more curt than usual.  "Out," Cassandra repeats and then glares at Cullen, "Oh, that's fine.  Out.  That absolutely justifies all the worrying we've done.  Thank you so much for clearing that up."

 

"Cassandra..." Josephine says warningly, and then Cullen looks at her and asks, "Where's my guitar?"

"Where do you think it is?  They're in the wings, with mine, waiting for Pirate Queen to be done..."

 

Cullen frowns. "Isabela's here?" He bites his lip, then snarls, "Where's Hawke?  They should have locked up that mage git years ago..."

Dorian frowns and looks at Bull, who is looking from Cullen to Cassandra.  He then looks at Dorian, shaking his head minutely.  Dorian interprets the gesture to mean  _ stay quiet _ _,_ so he does, albeit with great difficulty.  Is Cullen high?  It would certainly appear so; his eyes rove restlessly about the room, and his posture is tense, more stiff than Dorian has ever seen him.  Cullen's fists clench and unclench, and when nobody answers his question, he seems to lose patience all of a sudden and snaps, "Well?  Where is he?"

 

Cassandra shakes her head, looks at Josephine briefly, then looks at Cullen with utter contempt.  "Come with me," she tells him.  She takes two paces forward and grabs him by the arm, pulling him around with such ferocity that he staggers a little bit and is compelled forward.  Josephine hurries to open the door, and Cassandra pulls Cullen along with her, out of the door, into the corridor.  Josephine follows, without a backward glance.  There is the noise of a choppy guitar chord, and then the sounds are all blocked again as Josephine closes the door behind her.

 

Dorian looks at Bull.  Bull is impassive, no surprises there, but as Dorian continues studying him, he remembers the impression of anger he had got when Bull had described White Chant's enablement of Cullen's lyrium addiction in the past.  The silence continues, Bull gazing at the door, Dorian looking at Bull, studying his features.  He feels strange, like the water he had been swimming in had gone from warm to cold suddenly.  He shrugs, trying to free himself of the unsettling emotion, and Bull turns to him and sighs.  "Oh boy," is all he can manage, and then there is a thump from the wall, and they both turn to look at it.  Dorian shakes his head slowly, and inhales, and Bull taps a rhythm out on his leg, seemingly without thinking.  Then the door opens, and Cassandra reenters the room.

 

Her nostrils flare, and Dorian thinks he has never seen her so upset.  She doesn't say anything initially, just closes the door behind her, but just as Dorian is getting ready to ask her if they are going to cancel the show, Cassandra says, very quietly, "He can play.  He wants to play."  She swallows, shakes her head, then tells them, "Back on that wagon again.  One afternoon, and all that time and energy, all that emotional expense just... down the drain."  

 

She looks at Dorian, leans against the door so that it cannot be opened from outside and tells him, "Don't do magic in front of him.  Not while he's like this.  Don't..." she sighs again, harshly, and she amends, "Try not to talk about magic, try not to be alone with him if you can help it.  It's not that I think that you're in danger from him - I know you're more than capable of looking after yourself - but..." she pauses again, folds her arms so that she is cupping her elbows, one in each opposing hand.  She looks nervous, defensive, and defeated at the same time, "But... it's as much for his benefit as it is for yours.  You can't trust him when he's like this."

 

"Holy Maker, Cassandra!  You make it sound like he's going to chop me up into little bits!"  Dorian blusters, trying to cover his sudden nerves.  He knows the rumours, of course; that lyrium addicts can be violent, emotionally detached from their surroundings, and sometimes fail to recognise even people that they've known for years.  He suddenly recalls reading, sometime after Red Dogs of Violent Death had released their album  _ Nightmares _ _,_ an interview with the band in which Cullen had spoken of the infamous concert at Kinloch Hold.  RDVD had arrived late to the stage, more than half an hour after their support act had finished, and then left after less than ten minutes, Lee Samson snarling into the microphone, "Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?" before he dropped it on the stage and the band had walked.  

 

The crowd had rioted, tearing into the auditorium, causing massive damages and injuries, and eventually the whole scene had to be dispersed by riot police.  In the interview, Cullen had laughed about the incident, told the interviewer that a mage had probably started it all, that they had got everything they had deserved.  When the interviewer had replied that it was more likely to be RDVD's lack of professionalism that caused the incident, Cullen had responded that the whole thing should have just been annulled before it even began,  _ put them all out of their misery, put them all down like dogs _ _;_ the quoted words swarm into Dorian's consciousness and he shudders, then looks at Cassandra and raises his eyebrows.  "So... we're going ahead?" he asks.

 

Cassandra grimaces, a reluctant acquiescence, then looks at Bull.  Bull rolls his head around on his shoulders and stretches his shoulders back, then purses his lips and nods.  "I'll go get him," he says, beginning to rise, and then Dorian frowns and says, "No.  Let me."

 

"Dorian, did you hear anything I just said?" Cassandra asks, exasperated.  "It's not safe, it's..."

"I heard what you said, Cassandra, and I thank you for your concern.  But the fact of it is, I'm not going to  _ hide _ from Cullen.  He's my friend.  And for Andraste's sake, he'll need all the help he can get to get through this."  He pauses to rise, crushing the nervousness that threatens to overwhelm him, ignoring the voice in his head that tells him this is a very bad idea, "I have to stand closest to him on stage.  I want to see how twitchy he is.  And you have to prove that you really do trust me to look after myself.  You had no compunction about leaving Josephine in there with him, I noticed."

 

Cassandra frowns, and then crosses quickly to the door, opening it.  She stalks through, Dorian now close behind her, and the noise from the stage is like an assault.  _...always struttin’ when in motion _ _,_ Isabela sings,  _ make the little girls dance, ‘cause I’m rock and rollin’... _ and then Cassandra opens the door to the adjoining room, they walk through, and the noise is muffled once more.  Josephine smiles, though Dorian thinks it is more like a rictus, and tells Cullen, "Look, I told you they'd come back."

 

"When do we play?  Is it after Fader?" Cullen asks, and Dorian sees he has taken off his shirt and jacket, sweat standing on his skin, though he seems to be shivering.  Dorian cannot help but make a mental note of the tattoos on Cullen's chest - two swords, the blades crossed over his heart, the words  _ sacrifice _ and  _ honour _ arching over the design; a rampant mabari,  _ de rigeuer for any good Fereldan boy _ _,_ Dorian thinks ironically and almost smiles.  Cullen is restlessly pacing, from one side of the room to the other, and Josephine watches him, then sidles closer to Cassandra to mutter, 

 

"He's only had a little, as far as I can establish.  But... He still seems different, this seems... stranger than I've seen him"

"Did you call Lysette?" Cassandra mutters in return and Josephine nods.  Dorian walks forward a little, slowly, and Cullen stops his pacing and stares at him.  The look on his face is blank, puzzled, lost, but Dorian sees that Cullen's fists are still clenching and unclenching, knuckles blazing whiter with every motion.  "You look familiar," Cullen says, and his voice is sad, "Like someone... someone I used to know."

 

Dorian hears the door open and close behind him, but doesn't look back.  He hears Bull muttering something to Cassandra, his voice a soothing drone. 

"I do know you, Cullen.  But my name is Dorian, if you don't remember."  Cullen frowns, looks at Dorian, then repeats his name back to him, then Dorian asks, "Are sure you're alright?  Thrown from the Breach - that's our band - will be playing very soon.  After Pirate Queen.  That's Isabela and Merrill's band."

 

Cullen nods slowly, then tells Dorian, "I...  I'm fine.  I just needed... a little something.  I wasn't...  I haven't been sleeping well lately."  He shakes his head, looks pleadingly at Dorian and tells him, "That's alright, isn't it?  I need to sleep.  I only wanted a little, to make the dreams stop.  Is... am I really in Thrown from the Breach?  I like them.  Their lead singer is beautiful.  He's... well."  Cullen colours and looks away, and his fists clench and unclench before he mumbles, "You know, beautiful... for a man."

 

Dorian nods, tries not to smile.  "Do you know the bass parts for all of their songs?" Dorian asks, and Cullen nods, then looks at him, smiling, and Dorian allows himself a small exalted moment when he notices that Cullen seems calmer.  "Lee taught them to me," Cullen says, then looks nervous and asks Dorian, "Are you sure my guitars are alright?  Can I play the Schecter with you guys?"

 

"You can play whichever one you like, Cullen."  Dorian looks behind him quickly, sees Cassandra and Bull standing with Josephine and a woman he doesn't know.  "For now, I think there's a friend here who'd like to talk to you, if that's alright?  I'll come and get you when it's time for us to play.  Is that alright with you?"

 

Cullen nods, and then looks to the group in front of the door.  "Lysette," he says quietly, then his nostrils flare and he says, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, "I fucked up.  Things got bad and I fucked up."

 

The woman Cullen has addressed as Lysette walks toward him, shaking her head.  “It happens, Cullen…” she tells him quietly, and Dorian glances backward toward the door.   Cassandra beckons to him and he backs toward her, unwilling to turn his back on Cullen.  The door is opened, and he feels Bull’s hand on his arm, guiding him out, and he looks at Cullen quickly, sees him shudder violently and rub his fists into his eyes like a tired child.   _ I don’t want to fight, I want to get along with you _ _,_ Zevran is singing now,  _ this time of nights for singin’ songs about the local news… _ Dorian smiles slightly, Bull’s hand still warm on his arm, and follows Cassandra back to their dressing room as Zevran continues to sing, the amplification of the music making the floor vibrate.  After just a few paces they are back inside.

 

“We have twenty minutes tops,” Cassandra says, and Josephine nods.  “Well,” Josephine tells the three of them, “it seems to me that we have three options.  The first is that we cancel the rest of the show.”  Dorian shakes his head a little and Cassandra looks at him and narrows her eyes, “Second, we go ahead with the show, but cut it short.  And third, we go ahead with the show and damn the consequences.”

 

“Second option,” Bull says, at the same time that Dorian says “Third, definitely!  He’s fine,” and Cassandra says, “We have to cancel.”  Josephine looks between the three of them and snorts a sarcastic laugh, shaking her head.  Dorian thinks she must be really under stress - he’s never heard a sound quite like that out of her.  His assumption is proved correct by the shake of anger he hears under her voice when she says, “Whatever you decide is fine with me.  But you have to reach a consensus, and you have to do it quickly.  I’ll come back in ten, and I’ll expect your decision then.”  

 

Dorian sighs as Josephine closes the door behind her.  “I don’t see why we’re even debating this,” he says, “Cullen’s fine, he wants to play, and…”

“Cullen doesn’t even remember the name of the band that he’s playing in.  He thinks Lee Samson taught him his bass part.  And he’s fixated on the fact that Fader are here.”  Cassandra rises, glaring at Dorian, “We are not going on stage with him like this.”

“But you heard..”

“We are not going on…”

 

“What is this about  _ we _ _,_ fuck democracy, right Cassandra?”  Dorian pushes his chin forward and points an angry finger at her, “ _ We _ need to make this decision.  That  _ we  _ includes Cullen, or it should.  You heard Cullen say he wanted to play, the same as I did.”  He makes an effort and lowers his voice, takes a deep breath, “I want to give him a chance to prove to himself that he’s not as fucked up as he thinks he is.  He can pull it together.”

 

“And what will you do if he attacks you on stage?” Cassandra asks, her expression cold, “What will you do if he suddenly gets it into his head that there’s someone, something, in the crowd and decides to come out swinging?  What will you do then, since you’ve obviously thought this out so well?”  She takes a step toward him, and Dorian notices Bull sit up a little straighter on the table that he’s leaning against, like he’s sensing some kind of threat and wants to be ready for it. “Dorian, with respect, you have  _ no fucking idea _ what he’s capable of when he’s like this.  I’ve seen him go from that lost puppy look that he had in there to… to just…”  She swallows and Dorian notices her eyes are shining with tears.  Her chin quivers slightly and then she sighs harshly and resumes, “Don’t mistake what you saw in there for the full extent of his emotional capacity.  It flips so fast you won’t see it coming.”

 

“You know…” Bull says quietly, “There is always option two.  And maybe even an amended option two.  While the crew set up, we talk to Pirate Queen.  We play as Thrown for a half show, twenty minutes.  For the rest of the gig, maybe Zev or Isabela replaces Cullen.  That way, the crowd gets a full show, Cullen gets to come down in the quiet, but he still gets to play and we don’t have to worry too much about any misbehaving.”  He shrugs. “Isn’t perfect, but better than nothing.  Everyone gets a portion of what they want, but not enough to be entirely happy. Which makes it the perfect compromise.” He smirks, shrugs again and waits.

 

Both Dorian and Cassandra are quiet, thinking.  Dorian looks at Cassandra, sees her look away and surreptitiously try to wipe at her eyes, which only succeeds in smearing an unlovely black mark across her temple from the side of her eye.  “Ugh,” he says, shaking his head, “Come here.  You’ve wrecked your makeup.”

“I meant it to look like this, Dorian,”  Cassandra says stiffly, and he arches an eyebrow and snorts a laugh.  

 

“I doubt that very much,” he says, and then approaches her, taking her hand and pulling her reluctantly over to a wall mounted mirror.  She sighs and her shoulders sag when she sees the mark, and then licks her fingers and rubs at it frantically.  “Oh Maker,” Dorian groans, “You have got to be kidding me.  Don’t you even have makeup remover?”

 

“We don’t all travel like mobile version of the cosmetics counter at  Celene , ” Cassandra mutters, and Dorian rolls his eyes.  After a minute more of rubbing, the dark streak is sufficiently blurred to make it almost unnoticeable, and Cassandra looks at Dorian in the reflection of the mirror and says quietly, “You really don’t have any idea of what Cullen’s capable of like this.”  

 

She sighs and turns looking at him directly now, her dark eyes serious, troubled, “Don’t get me wrong, I understand where you’re coming from, and I agree with you to a certain extent.  But… I’ve been around lyrium users more than either of you,” and here she casts her eyes aside to take Bull into the conversation as well, “and you really have no idea.  But,” she pauses, draws breath and sighs, “I can see you are both wanting to at least try.  So, in the interests of  _ democracy _ _,_ ” she looks sharply at Dorian as she says the word, “I would be willing to talk to Cullen about Bull’s amended option two.  But we had better hurry up about it.”

 

In the end, the decision is taken out of their hands.  When Cassandra returns to the green room after talking to Cullen, she looks so pale and wan that Dorian thinks she might vomit.  "Lysette told me she's going to take him back to the hotel.  He's not in any state to play tonight, not even as much as he wants to.  And he really does want to," she shakes her head, suddenly looking annoyed again, "But he hasn't used in such a long time, even the little that he had just shot through him like wildfire.  Thank the Maker for Lysette."

 

Dorian frowns, then arches an eyebrow and tells her, "I suppose you got your wish.  We'll have to cancel."

"Nope," Bull says, and then there is a brief knock, and Josephine enters the room.  She closes the door, drowning out the sound of Isabela speaking into the microphone, saying something about sweaty elves. 

"What is your decision?" she asks.

It is Bull who addresses her.  "Cullen can't play, Lysette's taking him back to the hotel."  Josephine remains impassive, but Dorian is sure that he can see her mind begin to whirr with the things she has to now put in motion to salvage as much of the situation as possible, somehow wrench it around to Inquisition's advantage.  Bull continues, smiling as he does, "I'm going to talk to Pirate Queen, see if I can get Izzy to do a set with us, or maybe Izzy and Zev."  He shrugs and tells her, "Pray for sunshine, build dams, right?"

Josephine nods. "That's about right.  So if Isabela or Zevran will do it, will you still play a short set?"

 

Bull shrugs again, tells her, "It really depends on what they say.  They've just come off a shorter set, they might be willing to go for it.  Or swap in the middle, I don't know.  But I think..." and here he looks around at the others and shakes his head, "Nah, I don't know.  We'll have to ask."

 

-|||-

 

“Goodnight, Denerim, you bunch of charming assholes!”  Isabela yells, “Goodnight Fereldan, all you funky mabari!  Goodnight!”  She laughs, pulling her guitar strap over her head as the lights go out onstage and the roadies swarm out as they had the previous night.  Zevran trots over to her and they begin to walk offstage together, walking straight towards where Dorian and Bull stand.  

 

“Izzy,” Bull says loudly, “We gotta problem.”

She looks at him, blinking and unhooking the earpiece.  “Horrid thing,” she mutters then frowns up at Bull. “What is it?”  Zevran stops behind her, looking around her shoulder at Dorian with a puzzled expression.  

 

“It’s Cullen,”  Bull says, and then shifts his body aside and asks, “Can we talk to you guys for a minute?”

Isabela looks back at Zevran, who nods and shrugs.  “Mystery upon mystery,” he murmurs and Isabela smiles, but they both follow Bull and Dorian back to the dressing room that Thrown have claimed.

 

“So what’s the deal with Culls?” Isabela asks, and Cassandra shifts and sighs.  “He’s sick, it came on suddenly,” she says, her expression shifting, and Dorian wills her not to give the game away.  “Andraste’s Tits, it must have come on suddenly, is he alright?” Isabela asks, and she looks legitimately concerned, which is quite nice, thinks Dorian, considering their obvious uncertainty about each other.  “He’ll be fine,” Bull responds, “But we need a favour.  We don’t want to cancel the show, and we were wondering…

  
“Have no fear, my friends, Zevran will step into the breach.  Ha! Literally!” Zevran laughs, clearly delighted with his pun.  “I’m not familiar with the exact material, but I am extremely good at bluffing my way through this sort of thing, and so I’m sure that it will be fine. Oh,” he says, suddenly cautious, “That  is what the question was going to be, is it not?”

 

“Koslun’s Balls, Zev, you’re a lifesaver.”  Bull sighs and then turns to Cassandra, “You want to modify the set list?”

“We should do, a little.  We don’t have time for much,” Cassandra looks at Zevran, entirely uncertain, “But we do have time for a little.  Maker help us all.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran steps up. Merrill wants a moustache. Dorian backs out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All new tags! (no, just some): Jealousy, Decisions, Blow Jobs  
> No new characters again. They're coming, don't worry.

* * *

“Your heart is like a diamond, you throw your pearls at swine.  And as I watch you leaving me,you pack my peace of mind.”  

 _No Expectations_ _,_ The Rolling Stones ( _Beggars Banquet_ _,_ 1968)

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dorian cannot look across the stage in either direction.  Zevran was right, he has no idea about the material, but even considering this, he has done extraordinarily well.  Dorian can hear Bull laughing in his earpiece and Cassandra muttering, “it’s E7, E7, E7, then A7, A7, no! _A7_ Zev,” and oh Maker, it is too funny.  He knows that if he allows his eyes to shift to his left, he will see Cassandra glowering, standing immovable like stone, concentration writ in every movement of fingers and lips.  If he looks to his right, oh no, that’s it, he’s done it, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Zevran whirling around and around, expertly dodging the cabling on his bass, blonde hair flying, laughing as he does it, and ah, Dorian laughs right along with him.  He mucks up the lyrics, but covers it as best he can, knowing that the crowd will forgive them much tonight.  

 

A burst of sympathetic noise had greeted the announcement that Cullen would not be playing, Dorian noticing a distinctly feminine tone to the moan from the audience.  But as soon as he had uttered the words, “...special guest, who has very kindly agreed to join us for a repeat performance, despite his astonishing work with Pirate Queen…” the crowd had utterly erupted.  Dorian didn’t think they could make more noise, but when Zevran came out on stage, his shell-pink Fender slung over his neck, prancing like a prizefighter, he had to admit that he might have been wrong about that.

 

They have abbreviated their setlist for the show by three songs only, but cut four songs which either have more complex bass parts or have bass introductions.  Zevran had raised his eyebrow and nodded when Bull suggested they do two covers, one of the Crow Blade song Assassination! and another of a song by Lily’s old band Left Hand.  It had all been decided with a great deal of alacrity, though Dorian couldn’t help feeling for Cassandra a little.  Having never really seen her nervous before, it was rather a shock to hear her muttering instructions to Zevran even as they were seconds away from walking onstage.  Zevran had caught his gaze and nodded seriously, but his lips had twitched in such a way that Dorian was rather pleased that Cassandra hadn’t seen.  

 

They reach the end of the song they have been playing, and Dorian takes his hands from his guitar, laughing into the microphone.  “I am sorry about that,” he tells the crowd, “I’ve just never seen anyone quite that energetic on bass.”  He twirls the little knob on the side of the mic stand, adjusting it down slightly, and calls across to Zevran, “I believe it’s your turn…”

 

And Zevran beams at him, begins to trot over to the middle of the stage.  He just exudes delight, and Dorian cannot help but smile back at him as Zevran reaches the microphone.  “Why, thank you, my beautiful friend.  Dorian Pavus, ladies and gentlemen.  My, oh my…”  Dorian laughs, shaking his head as he begins to cross the stage to where Zevran had been standing, when Zevran calls into the microphone, “But he’s walking away from me!  I have to say, I like this view, but Dorian, Dorian, come back, come back.  I’m not used to such a big stage, and I get so...”, he thumps two notes on his bass, “very”, two more notes and Dorian turns back around as Zevran tells the crowd, to a massive roar, “lonely.”

 

Dorian laughs, and sidles two steps forward, back toward his microphone.  “Closer,” Zevran says, a pleading note to his voice, and Dorian takes two more paces towards him.  “Closer, please,” Zevran says, and oh Maker if his voice hasn’t taken on that husky cadence that Dorian just cannot resist, so he thinks fuck it and strides the rest of the distance to where Zevran is standing, looming over him, the knuckles on Dorian’s right hand as it rests over the guitar strings brushing against the top of Zevran’s bass.  The amplifiers send out a slight whine of protest, which is quickly quelled.  Dorian leans down slightly, his face so close to Zevran's that he can feel his breath on his face and he purrs into the microphone, “Is that close enough?”

 

Zevran smiles and says, “Nearly.”  Then he turns his face toward the crowd and tells them, “I have to say, he’s even more good looking close up.  But to work!  Dorian, I suppose you might need to back up a little for this.  Denerim!  They let me do a Crow Blade song!  Here’s Assassination! for you…” and with that, he yells a four count into the mic.  

 

Bull laughs again, and begins to play, keeping pace with Zevran.  Zevran purrs the first line of the song into the microphone.  Dorian hears the crowd over the top of the music, thinks to himself they must be going absolutely batshit, but of course, he cannot see anything because of the stage lights.  He has to concentrate on the guitar part; there isn’t much to do, but there is a complex change in the middle of the song which he’s determined not to fuck up too badly.  Zevran keeps singing, leering at the crowd, and Dorian smiles at him, almost unconsciously.  The blue and grey t-shirt that Zevran had started the concert in had been discarded in a similar fashion to the previous night’s show, thrown out into the crowd during one of Pirate Queen's final songs. The night is warm, the lights are hot, and Zevran is shining with sweat.  When he pulls the neck of his bass guitar away from his body slightly, Dorian sees that the arch on the body of it has left a red mark across Zevran's stomach.  He watches further, almost hypnotised by the hitching of the muscles in Zevran's forearm as he slaps the strings, dancing back every chance he gets, away from the microphone to sway his hips, looking down at his guitar, blonde hair pasted to his forehead with sweat.  He throws himself into the performance, his whole being into the music, singing like there is nobody else there, and in that instant Dorian wants him.  He knows what that is, he's just caught up in the moment, and still... he shakes his head a little at himself and concentrates again on making the right shapes with his fingers on the fretboard.

 

-|||-

 

They troop off the stage in the semi-dark, the roar of the crowd still heavy, almost like they didn’t want the gig to ever end.  Coming through the wings, a huge shape looms before Dorian, and he grins up at Bull, who grins back then sweeps Zevran into a hug, literally lifting him right off his feet.  Zevran squeals and laughs, arms pinioned to his sides, and Bull bellows.  “You fucking champion,” Bull says, and Dorian is amused to note the emotion in Bull’s voice.  “You fucking gorgeous bastard.  You did great!”

 

“Bull, Bull, is this the way you thank everybody?  Crushed ribs?”  Zevran yelps, and Bull chuckles a little sheepishly and sets him down gently.  “You did do well,” Cassandra says from behind them, and Dorian turns.  She looks exhausted, and almost as if to prove it, she rubs a hand over her eyes and says, “I’m going back.  I want to check…” she pauses, seems to think better of what she is about to say and amends it to, “that is to say, I’m very tired.  Will you let Josie know for me?  Please?”

 

Dorian nods, frowning a little.  Wouldn’t it be funny if… he thinks to himself, and then almost laughs.  The thought of Cassandra pining for Cullen, all these years never saying anything is almost too ludicrous for words.  Bull tells her, “‘Course, Cass.  You did great too, babe.  Held the whole thing together with nothing but willpower at some points.”

 

“Thank you, Bull,” Cassandra says, not looking at him.  Her dark eyes are so worried-looking, such an unusual expression on her face, that Dorian’s frown deepens.  He is about to say something, but Cassandra just sweeps past them, walking quickly, shoulders hunched.  So he turns to Bull instead, and asks, “Have you seen her like that before?”

 

“Couple of times, yeah,”  Bull tells him musingly.  “Was there ever…” Dorian begins to ask, and then Merrill rockets out of the darkness, narrowly avoiding a stagehand carrying two guitars, and throws herself at Zevran, laughing and jumping up and down.  “Oh Creators, Zev!  You’re mental, you did it!  You did it!  You didn’t sound like shit either!” She squeals, hugging him tighter.  He laughs, and they dance together in a circle, yelling, “I didn’t fuck it up!  I didn’t fuck it up!”  Dorian and Bull both laugh, Dorian folding his arms across his chest.  Truly, Pirate Queen are a wonder; how they've managed to work together for so long and not be utterly jaded is anyone's guess.  Finally, the two elves stop dancing, and Merrill looks at Bull to say, "Come on then!  Drinks with us!"  Zevran turns slightly, looking at Dorian, tilts his head in the direction of the dressing room.  His eyes reflect the dim light strangely, almost glowing, giving him a strange air of danger and power that thrills Dorian.  He swallows, and starts walking.

 

The room is crowded, of course.  Isabela is holding court at one end of the room, perched on the edge of a table, telling a rapturous-looking blonde woman, "...really can do that thing, that magical electricity thing..." before she laughs.  From over Dorian's shoulder, Bull yells, "Izzy, baby!" and the crowd seems to draw breath before it parts for him.  Isabela yells, “Bull!  Well, slide me a side of beef, get yourself over here!” and Bull crosses the room to her.  Dorian hears a titter at his elbow, and turns to see Merrill there.  "She's so into him," Merrill smiles, and shrugs, looking down at the floor for a moment.  Dorian looks at her, carefully, and then asks quietly, "Merrill, are you alright?"

 

"Who? Me?  Of course!"  She smiles at him, but there is something hurt about her, and Dorian follows her gaze to where Isabela sits, fingers trailing over Bull's bare arms.  His guts twist a little, but he laughs at himself, shakes it off.  Jealousy, he thinks, a truly unattractive trait, especially since... but he doesn't allow the thought to continue.  Jealousy is exactly the word for it, what he seems to have surprised out of Merrill, but Maker, what business is it of his?  What good could he possibly do the situation?  So he smiles at her when she holds out both a plastic cup of red wine and the bottle and tells him, "I didn't know which one you'd want.  Y'know, after last night."

 

"You gave me whiskey last night, remember?"

 

Merrill laughs, "Yes!  I did.  You looked in a whiskey kind of mood.  Tonight you look in a red wine kind of mood.  That's one of Zevran's favourites.  The wine!  Not the mood.  Though I'm sure that he likes that too..."

 

Dorian laughs, and after he's taken a sip of the wine, he asks, "How did you get to know Zevran?"

 

"Oh, Izzy knows him from way back.  Izzy knows everyone from way back.  Gwen from Highever Orphan, Al from Last Warden Standing, Fenny... uh, Fenris from Lycanthrope.  Well, we both know him, but he doesn't like me very much.  Oh, and Lily, y'know, Lily thing from Left Hand..."  Merrill waves her hand in a circle, a sort of 'on and on' gesture, "y'know, everyone.  I only know Zev through her, really.  But he's lovely, isn't he?"  She takes a drink directly from the bottle. "Really lovely.  Oh!" She says, looking at Dorian, "Lily was in Thrown from the Breach too, wasn't she?  But she left to do that horrible Viktoria, the divine thing.  I mean, it's not horrible, it's alright.  But just... a bit boring, that's all."

 

Dorian hems noncommittally.  He dislikes most of what he's heard of the Viktoria, the divine album, but hasn't really given it much of a listen.  It seems rather rushed to him - too much flash, not enough depth.  Oh, it's certainly hooky enough, but then again, it is pop music.  There is something else in what Merrill has just told him, however, something that rings strange bells in his head.  Suddenly, it occurs to him - the gig he’d said he’d go to with Cullen.  “Merrill,” he asks, “What do you know about Last Warden Standing?

 

“Uh, well…” Merrill considers, “Their bass player is Al, he’s married to Gwen, y’know, Gwen Cousland?  From Highever Orphan?  Their drummer is Hawke’s brother, Carver, he’s funny, though I can never understand if he’d like to kiss me or punch me.  I did warn him once that Izzy would probably punch him if he did either, but still.”  She pauses to take another drink from the wine bottle, and then continues, “Their guitar guy, and he sings too now, his name is Stroud.  I don’t know much about him.  He seems nice though.  Oh!  And he’s got a lovely moustache.  Not as lovely as yours, more bushy.  Can I touch your moustache, please?”

 

Dorian grins, and tells her, “Be my guest.”  Putting her head on the side like a bird, she gives the end an experimental twirl and tells him, “Oh yes.  I could get used to that.  Imagine me with a moustache!  I’d want one like yours for sure.  It looks like it’s a lot of work though.”

 

Dorian shrugs, “Not really.  You get used to it.”

 

Merrill smiles up at him, then looks abashed, “You were asking me about Last Warden Standing, and I forgot!  I’m so sorry!  Were you going to go and see them tomorrow?  It’s a pity about Noodle.”

 

“A pity about… what?”

 

“Who, you mean,” Merrill laughs.  “Noodle!  That’s Al and Gwen’s dog.  He’s such a darling, but very old.  So Al gets real worried about him.  I think.  He’s been getting weirder, so maybe that’s just an excuse and there’s something different wrong.  With Al, not Noodle.  So they cancelled the gig tomorrow.  Were you going?”

 

“Cullen and I were going.  I… suppose we might not have been able to make it anyway.”

 

Merrill takes another drink and asks, "So, what happened to Cullen?  Did he eat something weird?  That happened to me once, when Fader were on tour up in Antiva, when Izzy and Tal got arrested.  Lucky Anders was around, though he was very grumpy with me.  I think he was just worried about Tal though.  Oh!  Hawke, I mean.  We just call him Tal.  Sorry," she mutters, her tone of voice going from bright to worried, "I know I talk too much.  Just tell me to shut up if I'm boring you, I won't mind!  Honest!"

 

Dorian laughs, and shakes his head, "No, Merrill, you're not boring me.  I'm actually rather delighted - I told you that I'm a fan of Fader..."

 

"Oh, that's right!  Will you come and see us, in Val Royeaux?  We're going to come and see you, Izzy and I talked about it last night, we'll bring the boys too!"

 

Dorian's eyes widen, he cannot help it.  The thought of Fader watching him perform is... spectacular, exciting and nerve-wracking all at the same time.  "That would be fantastic. I... well, yes.  I'll definitely come and see Fader in Val Royeaux.  In fact," he tells her, "wild horses couldn't keep me away..."

 

"Couldn't keep you away from what, lo bello?"  Zevran's voice purrs, and he feels a warm hand circle around his bicep.  "Dorian's gonna come and see us in Val Royeaux!" Merrill tells Zevran, and Dorian looks to the side, his flesh tingling at Zevran's touch.  "Are you?" Zevran asks as he looks at Dorian, "Well, it is deeply unfortunate that Crow Blade won't be touring until later in the season.  I should like to see you at some of our shows as well.  Still," he shrugs, "One never knows what the future may bring..."

 

"Merrill!  Earth to Merrill! C'mere for a second, babycakes!" Isabela's voice sails through the general hubbub of the room, and Dorian says, "Sounds like you're being summoned..."

 

"Coming, Izzy!" Merrill yells back, and then grins at Dorian and Zevran.  "Have fun, you two!  Be safe!"  And she bounces away, slipping through the crowd toward Isabela's voice.  "Will you really go and see them in Val Royeaux?" Zevran asks, his fingers tracing circles on Dorian's skin, where the sleeve of his t-shirt has ridden up slightly.  The tips of his fingers are hard with callus, warm and slightly rough.  Dorian smiles slightly and replies softly, "Definitely.  Our tour schedules seem to be fated.  We play in Val Royeaux the day after them."  He sighs, "Sometimes I can't believe this life."

 

Zevran nods, narrowing his eyes slightly as he looks at Dorian.  Then he smiles, warmly, openly, and says, "I never seem to get used to it myself.  It seems that the old phrase good things come to those who wait really must be true."  The smile broadens as he squeezes Dorian's arm slightly and says, still in the quiet tone of voice, "Speaking of good things, I think I've waited long enough to ask you - would you like to return to the hotel with me?"

 

Suddenly, silence is the only thing on the tip of Dorian's tongue.  Flirting with Zevran has been fun, but fucking him would be quite another.  It’s certainly not that Zevran is unattractive, he is, he’s attractive in the same way a bright cubic zirconia will flash prettily in certain lights.  Dorian pauses, wondering at himself, thinking of course he is, Maker, he’s gorgeous and talented, why are you thinking so hard about this?  But, then as if in answer to his unspoken question, his eyes fall on Bull's hulking shape as he laughs uproariously at something a dwarf is telling him.  As he watches Bull laugh, he sees Isabela slip a proprietary arm around his waist and smirk at the dwarf, who smiles back at her.  Dorian half-expects Bull to shake the hand off, but the qunari only turns his head and throws an arm around her shoulders.  Dorian cannot see his face. Bull's voice is in his mind suddenly, telling him one time thing, it was a one time thing.  Dorian blinks, feels his stomach contract briefly, then smiles at Zevran.  "I thought you'd never ask," he says.

 

-|||-

 

The night air is cold, breeze moving restlessly through the thin fabric of Dorian's t-shirt, under his jacket.  Zevran walks beside him, smiling up at the night sky as if he can see every star in it.  But the stars and moon are obscured with cloud tonight, a blank blue-grey wall of it, lowering the ceiling of the sky until Dorian feels almost as if he could reach out and touch it.  They are silent, just the padding of footsteps and their breathing, the rustling of leaves from the poplars that line the pavement and the far off call of an owl.  "You know," Zevran says, his tone of voice light, "I have never heard the like of your voice."

 

Dorian snorts laughter and says, "I'm already on my way to your bed, Zevran.  You needn't compliment me.  Or rather," he grins, "Save your compliments for another of my many and varied skillset."

 

Zevran laughs at that, tucks his arm neatly through at the crook of Dorian's elbow.  "I didn't mean it like that, lo bello.  Or, if it was effective, then I'm glad that it had that effect, but," he shrugs, "I was just thinking about your performance.  You manage some technically proficient guitar playing with some very interesting vocal work, and..."  the smile broadens, and Zevran raises an eyebrow, "I think that was when I knew that I wanted you.  I am always a slut for talent."

 

Dorian snorts again.  He is silent for a moment as they walk, listening to the call of the owl as it diminishes in the distance, then he sniffs.  As lovely as Zevran is, that image of a piece of bright costume jewellery keeps recurring - gorgeous to look at, precious in its way, but not out of the ordinary enough to care too much about.  Is that what he wants?  Will he always crave the risk, but end up with the familiar?  We are all our own worst enemies, he thinks, wondering at the familiarity of the sentiment.  But does any of it really matter?  He is here, Zevran has offered, and trumpery diamonds are surely better than none.

 

-|||-

 

Quiet down the corridor, then inside the darkened room.  Zevran throws the keycard down on the end table, then switches on the lamp next to it.  In the low golden light it emits, he turns to Dorian, smiling.  “Wine?”  Dorian nods, smiling back, and begins to undo the buckles on his jacket.  He watches Zevran move about the room, admiring the lithe grace with which Zevran walks, pours, the way he hands a glass.  Almost elegant, but with a strange animal twist that sends electric current through Dorian, a shiver of anticipation, and then, right behind it, a surge of guilt and confusion.  He barely tastes the wine, and Zevran sidles closer, skimming warm hands over his shirt, sliding those long fingers around the waist of Dorian's tight black jeans.  In a soft voice, he asks, smiling gently, “What do you like, mi precioso?”

 

Dorian takes another sip of wine, trying to get his thoughts in order.  He curls his lip in a grin that stops just short of a smirk and reaches the hand with the wineglass in it toward the small table on which the keycard rests, along with a vase of white roses.  The smile broadens as he tells Zevran, “I’d like to get rid of all these pesky clothes, first of all.”

 

Zevran smiles, showing sharp-looking teeth.  Dorian sees that his pulse is thumping harder just under the line of his jaw, and tentatively cups Zevran around the back of his neck.  Zevran tilts his head up, expectantly.  Dorian pulls his face closer, and mutters, “May I kiss you?”

 

“You may,” Zevran purrs.  As their lips meet, Dorian caresses his thumb over the tendon in Zevran’s neck, pulled taut at the angle of his head, feels the heartbeat under his touch, his other hand circling around Zevran’s waist, rucking up his t-shirt at the back to expose the skin.  At first, almost shy, Maker, nobody ever thought Zevran Arainai would come off as shy, but still, the touch of his lips is warm and tentative, his breath sweet, he tastes of candy to Dorian, burnt sugar skin under his hands, warm and pliable.  Zevran sighs into his mouth, his hands working at Dorian’s shirt, sliding over flesh as he exposes it, lifting it over his head.  His movements are impatient, flitting from Dorian’s back to his waist, toying with his nipple ring, encircling his waist again, running his fingers along the runnel of hair from navel into the waist of Dorian’s trousers, leaving tingling trails of sensation behind them.  

 

Dorian barely suppresses a groan as Zevran gropes him through his jeans, long fingers and palm exerting a pressure which is both delightful and demanding.  Zevran breaks the kiss, gently biting on Dorian’s bottom lip as he smirks up.  “Ah, hermoso, mi precioso, let me suck your cock, you beautiful man.”  He watches Dorian until Dorian nods, then unbuckles his belt quickly, sliding the leather through the first two loops, unbuttoning and unzipping with deft fingers.  Dorian does groan then, Zevran’s warm hand on his throbbing cock, as he helps Zevran to push both jeans and underwear down farther.  As Zevran kneels before him and begins running a practised tongue over Dorian, lathing the underside of his cock, Dorian sighs, closing his eyes.  He is still only half hard really, so he decides to use a little well-worn mental imagery to help matters along.  

 

But all that comes forward in his mind is the sound of Bull laughing, the memory of Bull's face with the light of the dying day upon it as they had spoken about Cullen, Bull's concern, the feel of his hand upon Dorian's shoulder yesterday before he had gone to speak to his father.  He swallows, trying to push the feelings aside, feeling vacant, outside the situation.  He chides himself roughly that Bull is not thinking of him right now, is almost certainly thinking of Isabela, what she is doing to him, what he is doing to her.  It does not help.  He takes a deep breath and sighs, then tells Zevran, rather annoyed at himself, "Look, I'm sorry.  I... I don't think I can do this.  It's not you..."

 

Zevran stops, sharply, looking up at Dorian with astonishment.  He looks pained for a moment, and scrambles to his feet, speaking rapidly, "Oh, no, no, soy un idiota, I didn't mean to push..."

 

"No, Zevran, it's really not..."

 

"Ugh, please, please, accept my apologies, I..."

 

"Zevran, shut up for a second!"  Dorian, almost in spite of himself, is nearly laughing.  Zevran's face falls further, he looks so concerned.  He has stepped away from Dorian, his arms now folded over his chest, and as Dorian looks at him, tucking himself back into his pants as he does, he looks so shamefaced that Dorian cannot help a small huff of exasperation at himself for letting the situation get this far.  "Oh, Zev.  I just... I am sorry.  I suppose I'm not in the right frame of mind for this, not tonight."  He steps a little closer to the elf, who glances up at him, lips pursed, eyes still worried.  "Such a pity, too," Dorian tells him, strokes his fingers gently along the tattoos that crest Zevran's cheek, "Just look at you.  Gorgeous.  Hermoso.  Is that right?"

 

Zevran only laughs, then puts his hand over Dorian's.  "Right enough.  Ah, my friend, my beautiful friend, you don't know what you are missing."  Dorian smiles at him, narrows his eyes to say, "No, Zev.  Actually... I think I know what it is that I’m missing."   _And I know exactly where it is.  Who it is.  But I do not know how to reach out for it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, poor Zevran. IDK why this is important, but every time I read this chapter and I get to the bit with Zev playing the intro to the 'Crow Blade' song, I get the bass line from [Juicebox](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoltwBHXCx8) by The Strokes stuck in my head. So there you go, random-ass musical head canon for you.
> 
> I'd also like to thank [Earlgreyer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgreyer/pseuds/Earlgreyer), because holy cats, your fic Vengance really like, reignited my interest in Zevran's character. How he appears in this fic (sweet, flirty, loyal af and a teeny touch dangerous) is largely down to me reading that. So thank you very much, m'dear (also, you guys, go read that thing! It's so good!)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A terrible thing happens. Dorian wakes up. Bull is an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I may have slightly freaked out after re-reading this, but I've erred on the side of caution and changed the no-archive-warnings to Graphic Depictions of Violence for this chapters sake. I'm sorry if you've got this far and you decide to jump off here, but I'd rather warn you, dear readers, than not. I just wanted to do a little exploration of the political situation in this 'verse; things like the Mage-Templar War have still happened, that's part of the whole lyrium situation, so please-and-thank-you for indulging me.
> 
> So! New tags are: violence, templars and mages, idiots in love and Bull is an idiot. Because he really is, in this chapter. A heroic idiot, but still. Also, the politics tag applies here too. Only a few minor OC's in this chapter that you'll never see again, so no need to worry about them. Phew, sorry again, and essay over.

 

* * *

 

“Down the street, lined with dirt and plastic / When you appeared I just happened to be / in the midst of another nightmare / Taking me back, just like I knew it would.”

 _Shadow Song_ , the Screaming Trees ( _Invisible Lantern_ , 1988)

 

* * *

 

Dorian hunches his shoulders against the cold and blows out a breath.  It hangs in the air for a moment, then disappears as he walks through it.  Of course, now he regrets his decision to walk back to the venue.   _Rather too late for regrets_ _,_ he thinks.

 

He had politely declined Zevran's offer to either accompany him or to call him a cab.  They had talked for an hour, and every passing moment had made Dorian more glad of his decision.  Zevran is a marvellous conversationalist, as bright and flirty as Dorian could hope for.  But it is the silences that are the most telling - there are none.  It would seem that Zevran would rather talk nonsense than have a moment to think, and to Dorian this betrays a mind that skims the surface, does not seek anything more. He buries his hands deeper in his pockets, clutching the lining of them inside his fists, walking quickly to try and warm himself.  The streetlights cast a pale orange glow over the asphalt, and he quickens his footsteps again, hearing them echo around the empty street, the sound ricocheting off the ugly concrete of the office towers.  A slight breeze causes a plastic packet to tumble down the street before him, as a lone figure, made bulky by an overlarge hooded jacket, emerges from an alley.  Dorian frowns, wondering who could be out so late.  "Excuse me," the figure calls in a vacant, nondescript voice as he approaches, "Excuse me, sir?"  

 

Dorian says nothing, just inclines his head, keeps walking.  The figure doesn't seem to pose a threat, but there is something odd about that disconnected, emotionless voice.  "Excuse me," the figure says again, stepping forward into Dorian’s path. "I only wanted to ask if you've got a light, sir."

"No, I'm sorry,"  Dorian says, "I don't smoke."

"Oh, okay,"  And the figure steps toward him again, but there is now the blade of a knife clutched in one fist, "We’d better take your wallet then."

 

Dorian stops, swallows.  But hard on the heels of his initial shock, he finds he almost wants to laugh.   _You have no idea who you’re dealing with,_ he thinks pityingly.  He curls his lip, and asks, "Oh, _we_ will, will we?  You and what army, might I ask?"  He tries to flip fire into his hand, but is puzzled at how sluggish it seems, and his would-be attacker's eyes glimmer under the hood.  “Mage,” he calls softly, then a voice behind the first man tells him, "This army right here."

 

And into the soft orange light of the streetlamps step two more men, both larger than the first, both wearing hoods which cast their faces in shadow.  All the detail Dorian can make out is that the taller of the two has terrible teeth, exposed when he grins, and the second has dark brown or black stubble on a square jaw.  The tallest one carries a length of chain, wrapped around one fist, the loose end clasped lightly in the other hand.  The second carries a metal pipe.   _Construction work?  At this time of night?_ _,_ thinks Dorian, and almost laughs at the sheer madness of such a thought at a time like this.  The man carrying the chain looks to his broader companion, who grins evilly.  “I call his boots,” he says, and drops the heavier end of the metal pipe to the ground.  Dorian begins to frown, his mouth opening to ask, _what the fuck, asshole?_ as Metal Pipe drops to one knee, his mouth moving, and then a surge of blue light bludgeons into Dorian and the world goes black.

 

In the dark, and he hears voices

the dark

_how long have I_

_am I?_

he feels hands, not his own, in his pockets, and a voice says, “...for good measure.  They’d look…”  as he struggles to open his eyes, then a plaintive voice says, loudly, “...up, can you do it again?”

 

“Fuck off, I gotta keep my reserves up.  Don’t have enough cash for a dose,” a voice says, close by him.  Dorian is beginning to regain consciousness, but he feels as if the top layer of skin has been flayed from his body and his head stuffed with cotton wool.  Most perturbing, however, is the feeling of something missing, something that he’d never consciously considered; the Fade.  The delicate, almost liquid feeling of it is gone, or really, so faint that he barely registers it.  He feels the wings of panic beginning to flutter in his stomach, tries to quell it.  His temples ache, his eyes burn.  He feels his boots being unlaced, tugged off, then a voice laughingly states, “Aw, Phil, they’ll never fitcha!”

“Boots are boots.  These look good; mage-boy must’ve had some money.  Can always fence them,” this Phil says, his voice gruff, and then Dorian hears footsteps, unhurried near his head.  “C’mon, youse lot.  Let’s get out of here, ‘fore this fucker wakes up proper like.”

“Yeah, sharp, Tam!  C’mon!”  The petulant voice says, then Dorian feels a presence close to his face, then the expressionless voice which had started this whole adventure says, “It would be better to kill him.  He’s awake.”

 

 _No, I’m not, no, not me_ _,_ Dorian thinks, struggling, fumbling within himself for the Fade; he must have had some kind of Smite or other such spell performed on him, which would make at least one of his attackers a lyrium user with Templar training or associations.  That would probably be the larger of the two, the one with the pipe; _Phil_ _,_ he tells himself, _remember they call him Phil_ _._  This Tam, the one with the bland voice, sounds as if he might be Tranquil.  Maker knows about the other one, but by default he must be the taller one, the one with the chain; maybe it's the man with the constant whine in his tone.  He keeps his breathing as calm as possible, still feeling the looming presence of the possible-Tranquil, then hears him say to the others, “Does he seem familiar to you?”

 

“You fuckin’ kidding?  His name don’t mean anyfink to me."  Dorian hears a rustle, then his name, horribly mispronounced.  Phil, surely, the one who had taken his boots then asks, "What kind of a name is that?  Nah, just some rich boy, Tam.  Well, he's donated to the reserve now, so we should leave him somethin'."  A pause, then a note of command enters Phil’s voice and he says, "Tamerlane.  Come on."

"Wait," the petulant voice says, "What did you say his name was?"

 

Phil repeats it, sounding the vowels awkwardly, and Petulance says, "Shit, Phil.  He's from that band, you know, the one that that Cullen from RDVD left them to do.  Said in Philliam that the fuckin' git's from Tevinter."

"Huh.  Tevinter.” A pause, a crunch of stones and the hollow clang of the pipe.  Then Phil growls again, “ _Tevinter_ _._ " Dorian hears him take a deep breath and step forward again, and he struggles harder to find the well of magic within himself.  "Chantry says they killed the Maker, defiled the Golden City.  They killed Our Lady."  He can feel the panic getting hotter, the fluttering becoming stronger, because he still can't feel the Fade the way he should, and really, what else is he going to use to defend himself with?  There is a faint _clink-clink_ of the chain, and Petulance says, "Outta the way, Tam.  Gonna teach him magic was made to serve man."  

 

Dorian grabs for something, anything, ice, lightning, fire, force, there is nothing, nothing there, oh adiuva me, he thinks, sancti Andraste, adiuva me placere, in the mere seconds before there is a wuff of effort from overhead and his solar plexus explodes in hot agony.  He shrieks and his eyes fly open, arms and hands going up and out, legs coming up in defense.  He rolls to the left, and the next blow, this time of the chain, catches him across the upper arm and chest and he yells again.  The pain seems interminable, cold and bright like the invisible starlight, he rolls again and another blow lands on his back, but he is determined, no one could say otherwise, and he finds it somewhere in his panic-stricken mind to try to crawl, tears streaming down his face, a booted foot kicks his side, just above the wing of his hip and he gasps in and cries out.  He is facing the end of the alley now, trying desperately to crawl when he sees a car, a cab in fact, whizz past, and in the bright white pit of his panic he thinks, oh stop, stop and look, help me, help me please.  

 

From somewhere, seeming far away, he hears the heavy breathing of his attackers, the squeal of tires and a slam, and then there is a shape, a something moving down the alley toward them.  He sees the shape approach through a fog of pain, large and looming, blotting out that sick, revolting orange light, hears Phil yell, “And what the _fuck_ do you…” then a crunch and scream, a strange burbling gurgle.  There is a tattoo of running footsteps, a grunt and another shriek and sharp thump, as of something heavy hitting the ground.  A beat of silence, and then another voice, a strangely familiar, gentle voice says, "Holy shit, Dorian.  Dorian.  Aw, shit, stay with me, Dorian."

 

 _Dreadfully sorry_ _,_ Dorian thinks, _but I find myself with other pressing engagements_ _._  He wants to laugh, but Maker, everything hurts too much, and then unconsciousness takes him for the second time that night.

 

-|||-

 

                it's dark, for a long time.

  
  


everything in the whole world hurts

breathing

everything           

 

light, briefly, an unfamiliar face, then Bull’s voice says his name

Dorian

Dorian?

dark again.

 

But he can hear, yes, something about him, his name and the words “...idiot, all on his own.”

“He doesn’t know how it is down here.  Of course not, Andraste’s Tits, he’s probably never had a Smite, even a low level one before…”  That’s a woman’s voice, Cassandra?   _I’m not dumb,_ he thinks, _I read the news, I know what it’s like ._  He tries to say it, succeeds only in groaning, then sleep takes him once again.

 

But the sleep is lighter this time, a thin piece of silk held up to the light of the sun.  The pain is receding; he finds he can breathe more easily than he’s been able to.  Someone touches his arm, lightly, delicately, and then Bull’s voice says his name again.  “Excuse me, sir?” a female voice asks, and Dorian hears Bull shift, then the voice says, “Visiting hours are over.  You’ll have to leave.”

 

Silence for a moment, and then Bull asks, “Five more minutes, huh?”  A pause, then, “Please?”

The other voice sighs, then after a moment of consideration, mumbles, “As long as it’s only five minutes.”  There is the noise of the door closing, softly.

 

Through slitted eyes, the room is still too bright.  Dorian tries to inhale a deep breath, but ends up hissing it out; his ribs are tightly bandaged, itchy with healing, desperate with a wracking ache.  "Nice to have you back," a voice tells him, a prim, female voice, and he looks to his left to see a woman in dark blue scrubs standing next to his bed, writing something on a clipboard.  "And what a sight to wake up to," Dorian tells her, "I must be dead, you are a vision in navy."

The woman snorts, smiling, and tells him, "Not too bad, for a guy who's spent the last twelve hours in varying states of unconsciousness."  Her smile broadens as she tells him, "Your bandmates will be pleased to see you with your eyes open.  How do you feel?"

 

"Fine, mostly.  Sore, thickheaded, but fine.  That's your work, I suppose?"

 

The nurse nods curtly, then looks at a monitor and writes an observation.  "Well, that's good then.  Your vitals are normal, you seem to be stabilizing.  The healer will be in in a while to see you, now that you're actually awake. You took quite a licking, you know."  She looks at him and smiles slightly, "Are you hungry?"

 

"Starved, actually," Dorian admits, and the nurse smiles again.  She makes a final note and says, "I'll see what I can rustle you up then.  Shall I tell them you're awake?"

Dorian frowns, looking at her levelly, then he swallows and asks softly, "They're here?  All of them?"

The nurse, Gloria it says on her name tag, nods, and pats his hand.  "They're all here.  That qunari's been making a right pest of himself as well."

 

Dorian snorts a laugh, frowning as his ribs send him a jolt of warning and shakes his head.  "That'll teach you for having a sense of humour," Gloria smiles, and then she says, "The police will want to talk to you too, as soon as you can."

 

Dorian makes a face at that, and Gloria frowns slightly, and looks at her clipboard.  Without looking up, she tells him, "There's been a lot of what you had going around.  The war's officially over, but it'll never be over to some people.  A lot of mages getting attacked, these kinds of injuries.  Some not as lucky."  She swallows, takes a deep breath.  “My sister, for instance.”  Then she looks at him with clear eyes as she says, suddenly all business, "The police will want to speak to you, but of course, only when you feel up to it."

 

"Dorian!  Aw, you're a sight for sore eyes!"  Bull beams at him, huge arms folded over his chest.  Josephine is carrying a huge bunch of flowers, lilies and embrium, which Dorian just knows will make him sneeze, but he accepts them from her with a delighted smile and his thanks anyway.  Cassandra smiles, Maker, just look at that, a genuine smile of actual emotion - who knew he just had to get beaten up and robbed to wring that out of her.  Cullen looks tired, the furry collar of his jacket pulled up as if he is freezing, hands crammed in his pockets, but he smiles and mutters, "Hey, Dorian," giving him a sympathetic pat on the arm as he does.

"Just look at you," Bull laughs, "Sittin' up there like nothin' ever happened.  Good thing they didn't get your face, huh?"

"Even if they did, it would still be prettier than yours, Bull," Dorian smiles, and Bull guffaws.  "I think I owe you a thank you."

"Nah, just good timing, that's all.  Though if you want to owe me," Bull performs what Dorian can only assume is a wink, because he shuts his eye slowly and smiles, "You did interrupt a pretty great blowjob."

 

Dorian is too stunned to react for a moment.  He watches as Cullen looks askance and rubs the back of his neck and Cassandra looks at Bull with a _you really can't be serious_ look on her face.  Josephine titters nervously, and says, overloud, "Bull, you have the worst sense of humour..."

 

The funny thing, the strangest thing is, Bull seems almost as if this is a show, a stupid, brash front which covers… what?  The memories that Dorian has, Bull’s voice in the dark, the touch of his hand on his arm… was that real?  Or something conjured from an overwrought brain?  This qunari could hardly be anyone’s protector, let alone an Altus brat, scion of one of the most powerful houses of Tevinter.  And yet, and yet - Dorian knows what he saw, knows who he saw at the end of the alley as he struggled to maintain consciousness.  He _knows ._

 

Just as Dorian opens his mouth to reply, the door is swept open by a healer who comes into the room so quickly her white coat trails a little in her wake.  She looks up from the clipboard in her hand and says, "I'm sorry, I need to speak with Mr. Pavus.  If you don't mind..."  She gestures to the door, and the little group of well-wishers trail out.  As the door is closing behind them, Dorian hears Bull ask, "What'd I say?"

 

It turns out that Dorian is mostly fine.  Certainly, he thinks as he looks in the mirror, his ribs ache terribly and the bruising is nothing short of spectacular, but he will live, and there won't even be any scars.  But thank goodness they will be leaving Denerim soon; he will be happy to be on his way to Estwick tomorrow morning.  He has made a report to the local police, but they don't seem much interested, and he again thinks it must be an ill-fated set of stars which cause anyone to be born a mage in the South.  

 

He snorts, examining the bruise on his hip as he turns to the side, thinking that Bull has almost certainly saved him merely for the entertainment value he gets from taunting him... still, his ridiculous comment about the blowjob aside, he seems to have dispatched the attackers quickly enough.  He's really done the local constabulary a favour, thinks Dorian snidely, as he pulls down his shirt.  Bull had put two of the attackers in hospital, which saves the cops the trouble of hunting them down.  Which, of course, leaves them more time for jacking off, which is about all that they seem capable of.  

  
Still, as he checks his bags for the third time, he cannot help but remember Bull’s words.  They circle around in his head, the words that he'd said as Dorian had fallen away from the conscious world; _stay with me.  Stay with me, Dorian._


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrown from the Breach gets to Wycome. Cullen and Cassandra talk. Things go from bad to worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new tags that I can think of for this chapter, but some of the old ones apply: lyrium addiction symptoms, arguments, violence, friendships.  
> And yay! Some new characters! Finally, we get to meet the Chargers.

* * *

“I guess you thought that you were smart / but what sets you apart? / I guess you thought that you were strong / then why the hell would it take so long?”  

_ Brother _ _,_ Meat Wave ( _ Sham King _ _,_ 2015)

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen wiggles restlessly in the narrow seat next to Dorian.  The gig last night in Estwatch had been oversold, and Dorian wonders if Josephine or Inquisition will be suffering any repercussions.  And still, the tension between Cullen and Cassandra casts a pall over everything.  Dorian turns in his seat as Cullen looks out the window for a moment and sighs.  “I’m bored,” he announces, and from the seats behind them, Bull laughs.  “It’s been ten minutes, Cullen.  You think you got it bad?  I’m like a fuckin’ sardine in a can back here.”

Dorian turns around slightly in his seat and smirks at the sight which greets him - Bull is hunched awkwardly, head lowered, taking up two seats in the tiny airplane taking them over the sea from Estwatch to Wycome.  Even though his chin is almost on his chest, one horn is still scraping the undercarriage of the overhead compartment, the other sticking out dangerously into the aisle.  Bull sighs and says, “Yuck it up, ‘vint.”

Dorian squawks and clutches his heart.  “Bull!  What a come-back!”  He looks at Bull, a pained expression creasing his brow, “However will I recover from your devastating wit?  Oh, my heart!  My self-confidence!  I’ve been well and truly put in my place!”

 

Cullen laughs, raising his eyebrows, “He’s got you there, Bull.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Well, I was gonna invite you twerps along when I catch up with some buddies of mine,” Bull sniffs, and looks away, his horn nearly skewering a passing flight attendant, “Aw, sorry, ma’am.”  Bull huffs out a breath.

 

“What?  You’re not going to now?” Dorian asks.  “How rude!  You can’t mention something like that and then take it back in a fit of pique…”

 

“You probably wouldn’t like them anyway, Dorian.  Probably a bit too lowbrow for your taste…”

 

“Who is it?” Cullen asks, his tone of voice fascinated.

“Just Krem and that lot.” Bull says with a grin. “Not sure if all of them can make it, but I knew they’d be on tour at the same time, so figured we’d catch up.  It’d be cool to introduce you guys.  Cass has already begged off though.”

 

Dorian frowns, and asks quietly, “Is she alright?  She’s been… odd lately.  Hardly get a word out of her…”

“I can hear you, Dorian.”  Cassandra sounds royally pissed, though she doesn’t raise her eyes from the book to shoot him a death-glare, which he takes as a good sign.  Cullen laughs and says, “You’re for it now!”

 

Cassandra sighs and does look up then, across the aisle at them.  Her expression is sour, and she says, “I’m absolutely fine.  I just… I’ve got things on my mind, that’s all.”

 

“What things?”  Cullen asks, and Cassandra huffs, grits her teeth.  

 

“None of your concern,” she tells him, and Dorian can almost feel the waves of affront pouring off Cullen.  “C’mon, Cass,” he says, sounding to Dorian like he is trying to keep a lid on his temper, “Out with it.”

“Not here.  Leave me alone.”

 

“Cassandra, if you’ve got something to say…”

 

“Cullen,” Bull says, very quietly, and a large hand snakes over the back of the seat to land on Cullen’s shoulder.  Dorian looks from left to right, Cassandra to Cullen, concerned at the rapid cycle of emotions.  Not more than a few minutes ago, Cullen was making jokes; now, he is brooding, snappish, and abrupt.  “What?” he demands.  “If she’s got a problem with me, I’ve got a right to know.”

Cassandra glares across the aisle at him, looking around slightly before she hisses, “You know what my problem is, Cullen.”

 

“You’ve got a fucking nerve, Cassandra,” Cullen says, loudly, and Dorian cannot believe his luck, being essentially stuck between the two of them, and fifty more joyous minutes in this tiny airplane to get through yet, “Like you’ve never done anything remotely illicit in your whole life…”

Cassandra takes a deep breath, and looks back at her book.  Dorian doesn’t dare to look at anyone, just pretends to suddenly be very interested in the safety instructions, staring at the little figures calmly donning their lifejackets and following the flight attendants instructions.  Cullen stares belligerently across Dorian for a moment longer, and then slumps back in the tiny seat, staring morosely out the window.  “Fun trip,” Bull murmurs behind Dorian, and squeezes Cullen’s shoulder.  Dorian hears a sob, and looks at Cullen to see his shoulders shake with suppressed tension.  _ Oh Maker _ _,_ he thinks,  _ fun trip indeed. _

-|||-

Dorian squints through the lights, trying to read whatever is written over the young woman’s breasts.   _ Oh,  _ he laughs to himself,  _ fuck me, Dorian .  Fuck has a c in it, darling _ _._  He smirks, the lyrics so second nature to him now that he barely needs to think about it, and cocks his head.  So far, so good, though the dynamic has shifted a little bit; certainly they are still incredibly tight, but it’s going to be interesting if Cullen and Cassandra continue this state of detente.  Neither has spoken to the other except for the briefest periods during the soundcheck, and even though they are both interacting with the crowd fairly normally (which is to say, Cullen concentrating with almost paranoid attention on his guitar, and Cassandra glaring out like she wants a fight), he can feel the tension, knows it must be showing.  Ugh, Maker, he really,  really doesn’t want to be playing this childish game, but needs must.   Only twenty two days to go! he thinks, and almost rolls his eyes.  

“Thank you, Wycome!  Don’t go changing!” Dorian yells, and laughs as the crowd roars inarticulately.  He hears Bull laugh, but from the corner of his eye sees Cassandra leave the stage immediately, which is very unlike her.  He sighs, beginning to walk offstage himself.  He’s both puzzled and fed up with it; but having tried a few times yesterday, and again this morning, he knows that he cannot help her if she will not talk.  And she will not talk; not to him, not to Josie, not to Bull and certainly not to Cullen.  

He hands the guitar off to his technician who takes the instrument gently from him, smiling at it.  She handles the guitar like it’s her own, not even looking at him when he asks, “It sounds like something might be off; did you hear that buzz?  We might have a top nut problem.”  Her eyes flick to him briefly, still smiling, then she nods and tells him, “I’ll look into it, Dorian.  Might be getting a bit worn.”

"Thank you," Dorian says, and feels a heavy hand on his shoulder.  He turns, arching his eyebrow up at Bull, who grins down at him.  The qunari's hand is damp, hot; Dorian can feel the heat of it through his thin t-shirt, even warmer than his own skin.  He smiles fractionally, and Bull walks with him into the wings, hand still on his shoulder.  

"Good work there, Dorian," Bull says finally, once they are out of the main stream of roadies dismantling the equipment for packing.  They have a long travelling day ahead of them - 24 hours in which to get from Wycome to Ostwick, the next gig in the Free Marches leg of the tour.  Putting any of his guitars into someone else's hands still feels odd to Dorian, but especially the midnight blue Manson, with all the attendant memories it carries. He’s tried to keep the promise he made when he received it, that he would use it and not leave it in its case, too precious for anything else - though he cannot shake the paranoia that something will happen to it on the road and it will vanish, one of the last tangible links he has to Felix, his best friend. 

“You wanna come out tonight?” Bull asks him, startling him from his reverie, and he smiles.  

 

“Oh yes, yes indeed, Bull.  I’m not going to pass up a chance to party with the Chargers.”  Dorian raises an eyebrow at Bull and tells him, “I hear they’ve gotten even wilder in your absence, you old millstone you…”

 

“Yeah, I always was a bit of a mother hen, can’t you tell?”  Bull laughs, then tells Dorian, “Okay, well, gimme a chance to round up Cullen and get at least the surface layer of sweat off me…”

 

“Oh, so a week then?”

 

Bull flaps a hand, chuckling.  “I’ll meetcha in back, ‘kay?”

Dorian is wandering toward the dressing room, pondering whether or not he has enough time to get changed completely, or if he shouldn’t bother when he hears raised voices.  He stops, frowning, and hears Cassandra’s voice.  “...would you expect it to change?”

 

A pause, then Cullen, angrily, “It’s relentless, I can’t…”

 

“You give yourself too little credit!  You’ve done it once, you can do it again…”

 

“You have no idea what it does to me, I can’t do it in the middle of a tour!  I can’t take it, this fucking pressure, all these expectations!  It just helps me sleep, it’s only a little, Cass…”

 

“Maker, listen to yourself, Cullen!   _ Cullen _ _!_ ”  Cassandra sounds, even through the door, like she is about to hit something, Dorian can almost picture her shaking her head as she tells him, “And people say  I’m stubborn.  This is ridiculous.”

Silence on the other side of the door for a moment.  Dorian wonders if he should move away, pretend he’s not heard anything when Cassandra says, “We won’t replace you.  You’re too valuable, too good at what you do, lyrium or no.  I fail to see…”

“Cassandra.”  It is almost a whisper, and Dorian inadvertently steps closer to the door to hear better, “Cassandra.  Don’t lie to me.  You’re disappointed in me.”  A pause, then, “It’s all I ever do - betray people's misplaced trust.”

 

“You’re being dramatic.  For goodness sake, I know you haven’t taken it again.  I know how hard it is to shake.  If I was disappointed in you, I wouldn’t…”  Cassandra stops, and a pregnant silence ensues.  “Anyway, I saw this for years; Martel, remember?  He never tried to loosen the hold that his addiction had over him, and look where that got him.”  Cassandra stutters into silence once more, then says, very softly, “You’re better than you give yourself credit for, Cullen.  Don’t do it for me - don’t do it for anyone other than yourself.  But whatever you decide, I… we will be here.”  Dorian hears shifting from within the room, hurries down the corridor and turns around just in time to see Cassandra exit in a rush.  “Cassandra!” he calls, hurrying over to her, grinning broadly like he hadn’t heard anything at all, “I’m glad I caught you, have you seen Cullen?”

 

Cassandra looks at him suspiciously for a moment, and Dorian thinks he’s been found out. Then she tilts her head over her shoulder toward the dressing room and mutters, “He’s in there.”  She folds her arms, bites her lip and then turns, walking away.

-|||-

“Holy… wow.  Wow.  This is yours?  Really?”  Dorian looks around the penthouse apartment and then gazes at Bull in admiration.  “So buried under that don’t-give-a-shit demeanor is...actually a modicum of taste.  Who would have guessed it?”

 

“Not you, from that statement,” Bull laughs.  He ambles off, beckoning Dorian and Cullen forward.  The apartment is utterly wonderful - huge picture windows face out onto the bay, the decor a blend of the sumptuous and the modern.  In any other space it would be awkward, a contrast too desperate to be subtle enough to work, but here… Dorian eyes a tiny piece of Postmodern sculpture, a beautiful and vaguely terrifying rendering of a woman’s face and hand in bronze, ensconced in a brittle and somehow dangerous-looking red glass sphere.  

“This is beautiful work,” he tells Bull, who shrugs.  “Picked it up in Orlais.  It’s an Allegri.”

 

“Really?   _ Hemiare _ Allegri?  An original?”  Dorian sucks in breath, looking back at the sculpture for a moment.  “My  word , Bull, you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel!  An exciting career in art dealership could have been yours!”

Bull only laughs, holding out his hand for Dorian’s coat.  He shrugs out of it, hands it across to Bull.  Their fingertips brush lightly, and Dorian swallows.  Then an electronic panel on the wall blips twice, and Bull crosses the room, presses a button and says into the panel, “Come on up, assholes.”  Tinny braying laughter squawks back at him, and Bull grins.  Cullen scratches his head, opening the huge fridge, “Sounds like you got the whole crew on your doorstep, Bull.”  

“And then some.  The Chargers never travel light, not any more,” Bull grins at Cullen, catches the beer bottle one handed.  He uncaps it, takes a swallow, and says to Dorian, “Don’t stand on ceremony, kid.  Feel free to poke around - mi casa es su casa, okay?”

“Chief!” A shortish, dark haired man yells as soon as he walks in the door, followed immediately by a clamour of people - a surly looking blonde man, his hair longer than Cullen’s and straight, almost to his waist.  He is followed by a pale elf, her bright green vallaslin augmented by the bright purple of her hair, buzzcut up the sides to form a rudimentary mohawk.  She grins at Dorian, and then is shoved rudely in the back by another elf, dark hair cut in bangs contrasting severely with her white tank top.  “Move it, Dalish,” the second elf snarls, and Dalish brays laughter and tells her, “Sooo-rry!  Wanna break ‘em open with axes, Skinner?  Might be faster that way?”

More and more people flood into the place; Dorian marvels at the capacity of the Chargers to take over Bull’s whole apartment so completely.  Within the space of what seems like moments, he has been embraced, had his back patted, his hair mussed, and been punched on the arm (rather hard, though Krem seemed affectionate) enough times to make him believe that he is one of them.  They lounge with their dates over chairs and sofas, begin a rowdy game of Wicked Grace with several of their roadies on the dining table.  He spots Cullen clap Rocky on the arm, laughing, and make for the kitchen.  Dorian purses his lips, says, “If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” to two of the hangers-on who had arrived with the Chargers, and follows him.

“Oh, hey, Dorian,” Cullen twists the top off another beer bottle and smiles.  The smile is thin, tired, and Cullen sighs as he pushes his glasses up on his nose a little further.  For a moment, Dorian is going to ask him about his conversation with Cassandra, but he chickens out at the last second, and says, rather lamely, “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

 

Cullen grins and takes a sip of his beer.  “I don’t, usually.  I wear contacts.  Not when I’m on stage though.”  He chuckles, “Makes it harder to see the audience.  Just reduces them to a noise, nothing else.”

“Really?  That’s… odd.”

 

“Maybe for you,” Cullen smiles, “I’ve never been big on attention.  It stresses me out.”

 

“One might hazard the suggestion that you’re in the wrong industry, if that’s how you feel.”  Dorian puts his glass on the marble benchtop next to the bottle of red wine. Then, holding the base, he wipes a finger around the rim.  The glass begins to hum, and Cullen smiles, watching him, then looks down. “Yeah.  I just love being in bands.  Playing music, that feeling, you know, when you’re all working toward the same goal…” He shakes his head, and says quietly, “It’s always easier when you’ve got a good front, a singer or whatever who can take the attention away from you, wants it for themselves.  I don’t mind.”

Dorian’s finger buzzes slightly with the friction from the glass.  They are alone in the kitchen space; there is a shout from the group behind them, the ones playing Wicked Grace, and Skinner’s voice yells, “Get ‘em off, then!  Let’s see whatcha got!”  Laughter greets the sally, and as he waits for it to die, Dorian takes his courage in his hands and says to Cullen, “Look, it’s none of my business…” He watches Cullen stiffen, sees the golden eyes go inward, cautious, but plows on regardless, “But I heard what Cassandra said to you, and she’s, she’s right, Cullen.  We’ll be here, no matter what you decide.”

Cullen looks as if he has stopped breathing.  His mouth works curiously, opening and closing as if he was about to say something and then thought better of it.  He runs his hand up the condensation collected on the beer bottle, and says, so quietly that Dorian can barely hear him, “You’re right.”  He pauses, still not looking at Dorian, and then his jaw clenches once, and he says, “It is none of your business.” 

Dorian stares at him.   _ Bigmouth strikes again _ _,_ he thinks to himself,  _ Stupid!  What did you expect? _  He refills his wineglass and downs the lot of it in three swallows.  Then he refills it again and glares at Cullen.  “Except...”  Cullen opens his mouth again, but Dorian speaks quickly, “It  is  my business.  I thought that we were friends.  And I don’t stand around and watch as my friends put a match to their lives, not if I can do something to prevent it."  He sneers at the look of disdain on Cullen's face.  "I was trying to be nice, but I see that nice isn’t going to get me anywhere.”

“I’m going to tell you two things I learnt from women close to you, and you’d better have your stupid Fereldan ears turned on, because I’m not going to repeat myself.  Your mother told me that you started taking lyrium when you were still at school, that you basically started because Lee was doing it.  She was utterly heartbroken when she thought that you might be using again.”

The expression on Cullen’s face is tormented, blazing red now, but Dorian is so angry he can’t think to spare Cullen’s feelings even for a moment, so he continues, “She also told me that you might not have gotten through without relapsing if it weren’t for Cassandra.  Cassandra, Maker’s sake, you know she never talks about this stuff, and yet when you skipped out in Denerim to score,” Cullen flinches, and Dorian steels himself, suddenly aware that he is on the cusp of yelling.  “She was beside herself.  She would have thrown that whole gig over for you, if it meant that it would help you.  She’s angry at you because you won’t let her help you.”  

Dorian grits his teeth, feels the sting of tears close and hardens his heart as he tells Cullen, “Let me tell you something from experience.  You do yourself no favours by standing on your pride.  Cassandra was right - don’t get clean for any of us.  You have to do it for yourself.  But if you want to stand around and feel shitty about disappointing people, know this - the only way you can ever disappoint us is by not letting us help, if we can.  That’s all we want.”

He suddenly becomes very aware that they are being watched.  The entire table of people who have been playing Wicked Grace have turned around to look at them.  Dorian’s eyes flick to them, then back to Cullen, who is looking utterly mortified.  “I… I…” he starts, and then Dorian almost sees the snap of his temper, and with an inarticulate cry of rage, Cullen hurls the bottle in his hand at the wall, shattering it in an explosion of glass and liquid.  

“You don’t know me!” he yells, and too late, Dorian realises that his hands are up, Cullen grabs him by the shoulders, strong fingers digging into his flesh. Cullen shakes him by the shoulders and screams into his face, “What do you know about me, you little mage fuck?  You don’t know me, you don’t know me, how dare you?”  Cullen continues to shake him, Dorian hears Cullen’s name being repeated again and again, feels bodies all around them and finally Bull is hauling Cullen off him, saying, “Cullen, Cullen, slow down, breathe, breathe…” as Cullen fights desperately against him.  

Dorian feels strong hands encircle his arms too, and looks left and right, astonished.  Krem is holding one of his arms, Dalish the other, and Dorian realises he has both hands up, curled into fists that spark and dance with electrical current.  “Let me go! Let me go! He doesn’t know me, what did we do, huh?  Let me go!  Let me go!”

Cullen’s legs cycle uselessly in the air, and his struggles intensify momentarily.  Bull holds him tighter against his chest, and leans his head down to whisper in Cullen's ear, murmuring words that only Cullen can hear.  Cullen gasps, his grip on Bull's forearms slackening and his struggles begin to weaken.  Eventually, Krem whispers to Dorian, “I think you can put your dukes down, buddy.”

Dorian hems, and lowers his fists reluctantly.  Dalish loosens her grip on his bicep, and he feels a quiet blowback of some form of animist magic from her as she steps away.  She smiles when she sees him looking at her, and mutters, "I'd do my Walking Dead impression, but now isn't really the time." Dorian tries to smile back, but it comes out looking more like a grimace, he knows it does, and so he stops, and looks back at Bull.

"Hey, hey, Cullen, 'salright," Bull is murmuring, "C'mon, come with me, c'mon."  Slowly, he puts Cullen's feet back on the floor again, but maintains his bearhug around the smaller man.  Awkwardly, he almost frog-marches Cullen away, raising an eyebrow at Dorian as they pass.  Dorian draws a deep breath as Bull and Cullen leave the open plan room, and exhales loudly as Krem says, "Alright, you bunch of assholes.  Nothing to see here..."

People reluctantly turn back to their conversations and their cards, and the room fills up with noise again.  Dalish punches Dorian on the arm, gently, then puts her hands out in front of her and groans, rolling her eyes back in her head.  Dorian chuckles a little, then rubs the tips of his fingers over his forehead as he sighs.  "Forgive me if I'm not in the right frame of mind for zombie jokes."

"Oh, yeah, I get that.  I just wanted to get it in before you made a werewolf joke.  That's all!  Necromancy versus shapeshifting, the horror movie bad joke schools of magic.  Not that I would know anything about that.  I just play keyboards."  She brays laughter, then says, "Crisis averted, Kremster?"

"Yeah," Krem says, "The Chief seems to have it under control.  I think."  He looks at Dorian, frowning as Dalish walks away and asks, "You all good?"

 

"Fine," Dorian tells him, though the truth is more complicated and painful than the one word could ever do justice.  Krem seems to sense this, but does not press further as Dorian nods and repeats, "Just fine."

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krem tells Dorian off. A game of Wicked Grace. Truth and dare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new tags for this chapter (phew!)  
> New characters though!: Anora Mac Tir, and Grim (the Chargers).

* * *

“I’ve been higher than stardust / I’ve been seen upon the sun / I used to count in millions then / But now I count in one.” 

 _Lonely is the Word,_ Black Sabbath _( Heaven and Hell,_ 1980)

 

* * *

 

 

The party is beginning to wind down, and there is still no sign of Cullen.  Bull had returned to the main group a good half hour after departing, and he had only glanced at Dorian and shrugged, but made no attempt to converse with him.  Dorian oscillates wildly between fretting and annoyance; almost in one breath he goes from  _what have I done, what have I done?_ to _if the big baby wants to hoist himself on his own petard, that’s his problem_.  At the moment, the annoyance is winning, is indeed growing.  He swirls the wine inside his glass, feels petulance overtake him, and sighs.  Krem looks over his shoulder at Dorian and tells him, “If you do that again, I’m gonna think you’re having an asthma attack.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, takes a sip of wine.  “What’s got up your ass?  Sulkin’ about what happened before?”  Krem has turned full around, arms crossed over his chest.  He isn’t drinking, Dorian notes, somewhat surprised, and then frowns.  “Perhaps,” he admits, “But I feel I’ve rather a right to…”

Krem laughs, “Of course you do.  Feeling entitled is what guys like you do best.”

“Well, Cremisius, we can’t all be men of the people…”  Dorian sniffs, deflecting the guilt he feels with snobbery, “And with the way the people behave, who would want to?”

Krem laughs again, and follows Dorian’s gaze to where Stitches and Rocky, as well as a large portion of the entourage have begun what might first appear to be a large, giggling, simulated orgy.  It is, however, a rather drunken game of Twister - as they watch, the crowd of onlookers holler and point as Rocky stretches a little too far for a red circle, trying to loop his leg awkwardly under a blonde elf’s.  He topples sideways, face shocked, and the whole pile crumples, amid much delighted laughter.  

Some band Dorian has never heard of is playing now, and the repetitive beat and heavy bass make it seem like some kind of Antivan dancehall, until a rap, all in Elven begins.  “Who is this?” he asks.

“Harellan,” Krem says with a grin.  “Couple of Dalish MCs, and some city-elf-gone-native DJ. It means _trickster_ in Elven.”  Krem seems to be sizing Dorian up with his glance, and then he suddenly smirks, rolls his eyes and goes back to watching the struggling ex-Twister pile.  

“I suppose you’re going to tell me I should apologise,” Dorian says, but Krem shakes his head.  “Do what you want.  I don’t have to work with the guy.  But I always thought that sometimes you just have to smooth a path.  Sometimes an apology will do that.”

 

Dorian shakes his head.  He really doesn’t think that apologising to Cullen will solve anything, but then he reflects that it is not _solving_ but _smoothing_ that Krem was talking about.  So he relents, raising an eyebrow as he nods.  “I suppose it’s not going to make things worse…”

“That’s the attitude, champ.  Might want to try for a bit more contrition…”  He glances at Dorian and smiles, “Yeah. I know a few big words too.  You get that way, working with the Chief.  He’s like a walkin’ dictionary.”

 

Dorian frowns, looking over at Bull, laughing with Grim at the other end of the room.  They are in a tight little group, mostly comprised of women, one of whom clearly has her mind set on sleeping with Bull.  She’s pretty, Dorian observes dispassionately, pretty but dull, a cookie cutter groupie.  She laughs at everything, twining a strand of black hair around her finger, brown eyes flashing, dark red lipstick beginning to bleed a little at the edges of her lips.  All her clothing designed to cup and lift everything available.  She is, in Dorian’s opinion, trying much too hard.  As Dorian watches, Bull looks down at the woman from his great height and smiles, treats her to one of his maybe-winks, and all of a sudden Dorian feels a sudden urge to join their conversation.  “Will you excuse me?” he asks Krem, already moving forward, and Krem chuckles and says, “Sure thing,” to his back.

 

“Ladies,” Dorian smiles, inserting himself next to the dark haired young woman.  A flutter of giggling from most of the women assembled, and Grim tosses his hair over his shoulder and grunts.  “Hello to you too,” Dorian says.  

“Not interested in playin’ Twister, Dori-baby?” Bull asks as the dark haired woman slides her arms around his not-insubstantial waist and nuzzles into his ribs.  His arm goes around her, and Dorian finds himself grinning despite the strange, crushing sensation in his chest.  

“I’m not really a Twister kind of guy…” he admits, “But Wicked Grace, now… I could get interested in that.”

 

“Yeah, I guess that fits,”  Bull sounds amused, and although he keeps his arm around the dark haired girl, Dorian knows he’s got Bull’s attention.  Then Bull smirks, looking around the group.  “What do you say, ladies?  Grim, my prince?  You in?”

 

“I’ll play,” a lithe blond woman says, and Grim smiles lopsidedly at her, waggling his eyebrows.  Then he looks at Bull and rubs his fingers against his thumb.  “Nah, lets play for forfeits.” Bull tells him, “I like truth or dare better’n I like taking all your hard earned money off you.”

“Truth or dare?”  Dorian laughs, “You’re speaking my language.”  

They make their way over to the large, white dining room table, where the cards from the previous game lay abandoned.  As Bull gathers them up, Dorian notes that there is a pair of pink women's briefs hanging from the overhead light fitting, a rather gorgeous antique chandelier.  “Uh… Bull?” he says, and points upwards.  

“It’s an early Storm Age piece, another bit of old junk I picked up in Orlais,” Bull tells him, having glanced up for only a second.  “I like old junk, especially if it’s pretty.  Oh.  And they’re Skinner's.  The panties.”  He laughs, glancing at Dorian as he taps the pack of cards against the table, straightening them.  “You wanna know how I know that?”  Dorian grimaces, eyeing the cards as he does, “Not really.”

Bull shrugs, begins dealing.  Grim sits across the round table from Dorian, and the dark haired girl stands behind Bull, staring at Dorian, her eyes narrowed.  The blonde woman sits to Dorian’s left, her eyes on Grim, her long blonde hair curled elaborately.  It really is rather spectacular hair, Dorian muses, then says to her, “My dear, your hair is lovely.”

She smirks at him, bright blue eyes gleaming. “Thank you.”

“Oh shit, did you guys meet yet?  Anora, this is Dorian, Dorian, Anora.  Anora drums for Highever Orphan.  She’s Fereldan, but don’t let that fool you.  Plays the Game like an Orlesian, and has a mean left hook.  You wanna hear how I know _that_?”

Anora chuckles and says, regally, “Nobody’s interested in a history lesson, Bull.”

“Aw, c’mon, ‘Nora…”

“Don’t call me that, Bull, otherwise I’ll refresh the lesson for you.”  Anora smiles winningly at him and tosses her hair over her shoulder.  “Are we dealing, or talking?”

“I like you already,” Dorian tells her, smirking as he accepts his cards from Bull.  Bull grimaces, muttering something about youngsters, and then he sits back, fanning his cards delicately in his large hands.  Anora laughs, a tinkling sound, and Dorian suddenly places her - her face was prominent on the posters in Cullen’s old bedroom.  “Oh!  You’re also from Traitors Daughter!”  Anora sighs and quirks an eyebrow at him.  “Goodness.  I didn’t think you’d be old enough to remember that.  Maybe Bull’s not the only one interested in ancient history.”  Dorian shrugs, then frowns as another recollection hits him. “Highever Orphan, you say.  Didn’t your lead guitarist…disappear?”

Anora’s face clouds, her expression becoming pensive.  After a moment’s hesitation, she nods, looking at her cards.  “Yes.  None of us know where she is.” She looks up sharply and asks, “Now, are we playing, or what?”

 

Anora loses the first hand and Grim wins.  He chooses truth for her, and her answer seems to disappoint Bull.  “No, I never slept with him.  I hear Morrigan, you know, the lead for Golden Mirror, I hear she did.  The rumour was they'd even had a kid, though I can't see _that_ happening.  And Lily did.  And Isabela, but that’s not exactly big news…” She sighs and looks sad and worried, “Gwennie was the one that married him though.”

“Hey, hey,” Bull says, “No raggin’ on my Izzy.”

Anora laughs, “Oh, Bull!  Everybody’s slept with Isabela!”

“Not me,” Dorian tells her, and Anora shrugs.  

“Or me, I suppose.” Her bright eyes shine with suppressed mirth and she tells the table airily,  “Alright, everybody except Dorian and me.  Still, the exceptions prove the rule.”

_  
_

“Aw,” Bull says, beginning to reshuffle the cards for the second round.  “I just wanted to know what his cock was like.”

“Well, you’ll have to win a round then…” Anora smiles, accepting her new hand from him, and Bull’s eyes widen.  He says, sounding on the verge of laughter, “You mean, you’ve seen Al Theirin’s cock?”

“I may have.  It’s all about asking the right question, isn’t it?”  Anora laughs, and Dorian shakes his head as he joins her.  “Okay,” he says to no-one in particular, “Enough talk of cocks.”

Bull purses his lips, blowing through them, looking at his own cards.  “Really?”  He smiles, looking at Dorian and just smiling that big, laden grin.  It goes right to Dorian’s head, that smile and he grins like an idiot in return, he just knows he does.  Then he catches the dark-haired girl’s eyes upon him, her glower deepening, and he looks at her and smiles, using all his teeth.

-|||-

Another several rounds, more drinks, and the game has started to draw some attention from the rest of the party.  Bull has attempted a cartwheel at Anora’s request, and as the drinks flow and the crowd gathers, Dorian is pleased that it is Grim who gets to do the almost obligatory streak.  Bull invariably chooses truths as his forfeit, and he wins at a rather alarming rate.  Anora had paled when asked for her best childhood memory, and Dorian frowns at Bull, who does not relent or take back the line of questioning.  She makes it through the story he has asked her to tell, but there is something of a pall over the game after that.  Dorian is still pondering why Bull had persisted, has not really been concentrating on his hand, when Bull tells the table, “Grace.”

 

Grim snickers, lays his hand out, and Anora rolls her eyes and does likewise.  Dorian looks at his own cards in despair, but that is the game, and he has lost.  Now, like an idiot, he has put himself at Bull’s mercy.  Bull smiles at him, narrows his eyes slightly and says, “Truth _and_ dare.”

“Oh.  Uh.  Alright,” Dorian says.  His mind whirls with the possibilities; what on earth would Bull choose?  But Bull is rising, getting out of the chair, the dark haired girl having to step away from her position at his back.  For a moment, Dorian exalts at the look on her face, then remembers what he is potentially about to face.  Bull grins at the other players, stating as he pushes his chair back under the table, “This isn’t for public consumption.  Rules of the house, I guess.”

 

Grim grunts, looking affronted, and Dorian wonders how a man who speaks so little could have such a talent for singing.  Anora frowns as well, and opens her mouth to say something as the assembled observers wolf-whistle and cheer and plead, but Bull raises his hand, smiling slightly and repeats, “Rules of the house.  Come on,” he tells Dorian, and beckons him to follow.

As they walk away from the main crowd, out of the open plan living spaces, Dorian’s heart is in his mouth.  His mind races with the possibilities of what Bull could want to ask him, or, oh shit, what he could want him to do.  Somehow that seems almost worse, and his stomach lurches, he feels all the wine he has drunk begin a slow and seeming inexorable rise within his guts when he thinks, what is it? what is it? what have I done now?

He follows Bull up blond wood stairs, suspended somehow with wire to the ceiling and floor.  This part of the apartment is curiously silent, despite the goings on in the main area.  There is a short, dimly lit corridor, lined with large paintings, wild abstract expressionist daubings these, and then Bull is standing by a closed door, right at the end of the passage.  “So,” he says quietly, as Dorian stops, half a step away.  “This is the dare.  You go through this door.  Once you’re through the door, you only say true things.  Think that sounds acceptable?”

“I think it sounds fucking cryptic, actually.”

“Bet’s a bet, Dorian.  Don’t play with the big boys if you can’t pay up.”

 

Dorian bristles, narrows his eyes at Bull.  “So here’s that illusion of choice you qunari are so fond of.”  He folds his arms over his chest, then wrinkles his nose.  “Alright, I suppose.  Time to pay the piper.”  Bull smiles, somehow unnerving in the low light, and opens the door, stepping through it.  Dorian takes a deep breath and enters, right behind him.  

The walls of this room are lined with books, floor to ceiling. However, before Dorian can do more than perceive them as a vague mass, a movement catches his eye, and Cullen says, “Wondered when I’d see you two.”

Dorian stiffens, turns to face him.  Cullen sits in a corner, his boots drawn up onto the pale pink velvet upholstery of the winged chair he’s sitting in.  The silence in the room grows, and Dorian remembers Krem’s careful use of the word smoothing and grimaces.  He stands in the doorway, Bull in the middle of the smallish room, feeling more than a little ambushed.  Maker, he doesn’t want to apologise, feels as if he’s done nothing to apologise for.  And yet… and yet…  Bull smiles at Dorian, who frowns.  Bull’s smile only widens, however, and he says to Dorian, “Remember the terms, Dorian.  Time to pay up.”

The silence stretches.  Dorian looks up at the ceiling, shifts from foot to foot.  It weighs on him, this oppressive lack of noise.  Finally, he is unable to hold his silence any longer. So Dorian glares at Cullen and blurts out, “Your stupid Southern attitude.  All this Warrior Andraste shit.  Your faux stoicism is tiresome and dull, and all this anti-mage nonsense is xenophobic and rather pathetic.”  He huffs out a breath, and feels his anger cool slightly.  “If you think that I’ll take any of what I said back, then you’re wrong.  But…” he takes a deep breath, and continues, raising his chin in the air and looking away as he does, “If you were wondering if I was sorry about the way that I phrased it, then you wouldn’t be too far from the truth.”

He looks back at Cullen, feeling defeated and relieved at the same time.  Cullen stares back at him, and then his chin begins to wobble.  He takes a deep, hitching breath, then clears his throat. After a moment, he looks at Bull to say, “You took your sweet time.”

“Hey, you just said you wanted to see him.  You didn’t say when,” Bull chuckles, folding his arms over his chest.  “You think if I just asked him to come up here, he woulda?"

Dorian snorts and nods.  “He’s right, you know.  I wouldn’t.  But could you really blame me?”

“No.  I couldn’t.  There’s no… there’s no excuse for what I did.”  Cullen shivers, though the room is warm.  He clutches his arms around himself tighter, looking at Dorian steadily.  “It’s… just…” He sighs and looks away briefly, then resumes, “It’s hard to hear, how far reaching the consequences of my actions are.  It doesn’t matter how far I run, how fast… my head is always there.  And… you know, Ma’s part of that.  Cass is too.”  A pause, where Cullen bites his bottom lip, chews it for a moment then says softly, “I haven’t got an excuse.  I know what it does to them, what it does to my opinion of myself.  And yet I still want it.  I want it every day.  It’s so easy, Dorian.  So much easier than this.  At least, when you’ve got a habit, everything else just… fades away.”  He laughs, bitterly, “That single focus sounds so good right now.”

Cullen puts his feet on the floor then, and rises.  Dorian purses his lips, tries very hard to appear more nonchalant than he feels as Cullen takes a tentative step toward him.  “I wanted to apologise.  It doesn’t mean much, I know…”

“No. No.  Look, I don’t think you understand.”  He sees Cullen stiffen, a look of resignation crossing his face.  “You were right, at least about one thing.  I really have no idea.”  The sound of his attackers voice briefly echoes in his mind gonna show him magic was made to serve man, and he swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “No, ugh, look.  I know I’m doing this badly.  Hang on.”  He looks down at the floor quickly, frowning, trying to puzzle out how to make himself understood.  After a moment, he looks sharply up into Cullen’s face, and tells him, his tone of voice harsher than he’d intended, “Don’t apologise.  Just… just be better.  Let us help you be better.”  Dorian sighs.  Bull is staring at him, he can feel it, but can’t bring himself to look away from Cullen.  “I meant what I said, you know.  I do consider myself your friend.  If...if you’ll have me.  I just… I’m not very good at standing aside while people rip themselves to shreds, especially if they’re doing it under the mistaken belief that they’re somehow not good enough.  You are good enough, Cullen.”  Dorian snorts a laugh and smiles, “Much better than you have any right to be, with a face like that.”  

Cullen passes a hand over his own face suddenly, and laughs a little when he holds it out in front of himself to sees it is shaking terribly.  He clenches it into a fist, looks at Dorian again and takes two steps forward, quickly breaching the distance between them.  

Dorian sees Bull’s expression change quickly, then Cullen is embracing him, warm arms around Dorian’s shoulders.  There is a moment, then almost reluctantly, Dorian puts his hands up, onto Cullen’s shoulderblades.  He looks at Bull over Cullen’s shoulder, and Bull laughs, reaching forward with one finger toward Dorian’s mouth.  He grins, twitching a long strand of blonde hair out of Dorian’s moustache.  Dorian rolls his eyes, and mutters, “You are a mother hen.”

Cullen pulls back, stepping away from Dorian.  He looks abashed, folds his arms over his chest, and mutters, “Sorry.  Don’t know what came over me.”

Dorian arches an eyebrow at him and chuckles, “I’ll take hugging over shaking any day.  Infinitely preferable.”  Cullen sighs, casts his eyes down again, and Dorian instantly regrets his glibness.  Bull shakes his head a little, smiling. “Look, stay up here if you want.  I better get downstairs and clear those bastards out of my house before they upset the neighbours.  Or the neighbourhood.”  He smiles again at them, gently, and shoves his hands in his pockets as he looks at them for a moment longer before walking out of the room.

Dorian half-smiles, and gestures to the seat that Cullen had risen from.  “Do you get the feeling,” he asks, as Cullen takes the chair and he sinks into a similar one opposite it, “That Bull might be a lot craftier than he lets on?”

Cullen laughs, then nods.  “Yes.  Constantly.  I sometimes get this eerie sense that Bull is playing some sort of fabulously complex chess game inside his mind, only there are never any pieces - only people.”

Dorian frowns, then toes off his boots.  As he curls his feet under himself on the wide, comfortable chair, he rests his chin on his hand and looks at Cullen.  “That’s mildly disturbing, you know.”

Cullen only nods.  He looks pensive for a moment, then glances at Dorian, and says quietly, “I meant it, you know.  I really am sorry.  About everything.”

Dorian shakes his head, and tells him, “I accept that, Cullen.  But you don’t need to tell me.  On the scale of Important People That This Will Hurt, I’m fairly far down the list, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Cullen winces, and frowns.  “I know.  Maker’s Breath, I know.  I make no claims to sainthood, Dorian…”

“I know that, of course…”

“...I know I let people down, my family and Cassandra especially.  I know I caused problems for people.  I just..."  But here he stops talking, suddenly looking both ashamed and guilt ridden, then continues in little more than a whisper, "I know what's waiting for me, once we get to Skyhold.  And... and it terrifies me.  I'm dreading it."

Dorian leans forward a little in his seat, looking concernedly at Cullen.  “What do you mean?  What on earth could be waiting for you at Skyhold?”

 

Cullen says nothing, just stares into Dorian’s eyes, his expression haunted.  After a long few minutes of silence, he scratches his nose and inhales.  “I haven’t spoken to Lee in three years.  When I left RDVD,” he swallows, takes a deep breath and lets it out again, unable to continue for a few minutes.  When finally he is able to speak, his voice is ragged, and Dorian feels badly for him.  “Just before I left RDVD, I told Lee that I wanted to get clean.  Meredith had overdosed about six months prior to this, and she… she had changed.  Horribly.  The writing was on the wall, it’s not a matter of _if_ with lyrium, it’s when.  We had used for such a long time, most of our adult lives, and sooner or later you’re going to hit that dose which is a little bit purer and that’s it, it’s either the men in white coats or the grave that gets you.”  He shakes his head, and Dorian sees his knuckles are white with the strain.  “So I got in touch with LAA,” He clears his throat, looks quickly at Dorian, then mutters, “You know… Lyrium Addicts Anonymous. I wanted… I wanted Lee out of it too.  But he wouldn’t.  And now… I heard that Otto’s in the hospital now, he’s in a coma and they don’t think he’ll come out of it.  Meredith’s out, I don’t know the guy they’ve got to replace me, Barris, and fuck, these other two guys... I mean, they don't even have proper names.   _Behemoth_ , _Shadow_... what kind of names are they? I just...”  He stops short, a violent shiver overtaking him.  

Dorian can feel his frown deepening.  Part of him wonders why Lee Samson wouldn't at least try to come off lyrium at the same time as Cullen; part of him is wondering at the depth of feeling still there, still so obvious, the line that tethered, which still tethers Cullen to Samson.  Does it stretch both ways?  And if Cullen is dreading seeing Samson at Skyhold, how must Lee be feeling?  He purses his lips, lost in thought.  "And now," Cullen resumes, and Dorian looks at him sharply, sees that Cullen is staring at his shaking hands again, "There's this new kind.  Red stuff, not blue.  I'd never seen it before, not before... Denerim."  He pauses again, looking up at Dorian, his expression worried, "That's all I could get, the red.  That shit... it was insane.  I only had a tiny dose, and it put me on my arse for three days.  I can still feel it, a little around the edges."  

Cullen continues to look at him, his eyes growing more troubled by the moment.  “If that shit is what Lee and the rest of RDVD are using these days, then I honestly don’t know what they’ll be like.  I almost hope that Varric was right about the extra security at Skyhold - there’s just too many volatile elements to this equation now.”  He blows out a breath and rubs a hand around his neck, catching up the length of hair and twining it around his fist.  “I feel like I abandoned Lee, abandoned him to this, to White Chant, to… I don’t know.  I couldn’t blame him if he was angry at me, and I’d never run from it, but… I couldn’t stand him to be disappointed.”

“Oh, Cullen,” Dorian sighs, smiling slightly.  He wants to reach over, to take Cullen’s hand, but the memory of the rather awful argument is still a little too fresh for him to initiate that.  So instead, he shifts forward a little more in his seat and tells Cullen, “You hold the opinions of others in too high a regard.  You're not the only one who didn't reach out a hand, you know.  Admittedly I don't know the whole situation," Dorian knows he is sailing dangerously close to the phrase _it’s none of my business_ again, but plows on nonetheless, "But he never contacted you either.  So, to me, that alone absolves you.  You can only captain your own ship, you know."

Cullen nods, his expression still miserable, then rubs a hand over his face.  He stares off into the middle distance for a short while, then mutters, “If I’d tried a little harder…”

 

“A wise and disgusting man once told me that if you wish in one hand and shit in the other, you’ll quickly see which one gets filled first.”  Dorian sighs, smiling slightly at the quirk of Cullen’s lips.  He draws in a deep breath and feels the weight of his inexperience, hefts it in his heart.  It compels him to tell Cullen, “You know, I can’t be of much practical help to you.  But you know, I’m rather good at distracting people.  I can offer that, at least.  It’s not much…”

“It’s not not much, Dorian.”  Cullen seems relieved, and he rubs a hand over his mouth as he glances at Dorian and says, “I don’t deserve it.  But thank you.”

“That’s alright, Cullen.”  Dorian smiles warmly, cocking his head as he looks at Cullen, sees the trepidation in Cullen’s golden eyes fade a little as he tells him, “Honestly, I wouldn’t be offering if you didn’t deserve it, so please, let’s have no more talk of it.”

Cullen frowns, then smiles, that little crook of the corner of his mouth, and Dorian shakes his head and chuckles through his hand.  He unfolds himself from the chair, shoves his feet back into their boots and rises.  Then he looks at Cullen and puts his hand out.  “Come on,” he says, and Cullen takes his hand, his smile broadening.  Dorian pulls him to his feet, and says again, much more gently this time, “Come on.  Let’s get out of here.”  As Cullen precedes him out of the small library, Dorian casts a glance over the shelves and shelves of books, and then follows him back downstairs.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine gets mad. Bull gets some bad news. Dorian gets entertained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags applicable to this chapter: arguments, friendships, explicit sexual content.  
> New characters: just mentions this time around, they are Tallis and Gatt.

* * *

“Come as you are / as you were / as I want you to be / As a friend / as a friend / as an old enemy…”

 _Come As You Are,_ Nirvana ( _Nevermind_ _,_ 1991)

 

* * *

 

 

Josephine squares her shoulders and glares at them.  “You had better not think of lying, you bunch of bastards.  I will be able to tell, and I will be very disappointed.”

Cassandra and Dorian exchange a look, and then Dorian sees the title of the magazine clutched in Josephine’s hands: Philliam.  She exhales sharply and wrenches it open.  “There.   _ TFTB At Each Other’s Throats _ _._  Does that sound like positive press to you?”

 

Bull shrugs.  “Don’t sweat it, Boss.  Philliam comes out with shit like that all the time.”

“I know that, Bull.  I’m not a moron.  I am, however, really pissed that stuff like this,” she points viciously to the magazine, “isn’t brought to me first.  Some of it is just the usual refried shit that I already know about,” she glares at Cullen and at Dorian, “like you using again…”

“That one time,” Cullen mutters.

“And you apparently talking to Imperium a-fucking-gain.”  Josephine makes a noise of disgust, and Dorian thinks to himself that she must really be riled up about it - he’s never heard her use such foul language.  

“Josephine…” he begins, but she cuts him off with a gesture and glares at Bull.  

 

“But there is new stuff here too.  Bull, did Dorian and Cullen have a fist fight at your place in Wycome?”

Bull snorts.  “Yeah.  It was hardly a stand up fight though.”  He ignores Josephine’s indignant squawk, and Cassandra’s look of disapproval and tells them, “It was a little pushy-shovey.  No-one threw any punches and it all got smoothed out real nice.”

 

“Oh, that’s fine then,” Josephine laughs sarcastically, “Phew!”  Her expression changes, and this time she stabs a finger at them each in turn, “You are all a bunch of idiots…”

“What did I do?” Cassandra asks indignantly, but Josephine just rolls right over the top of her with  “A bunch of idiots who wouldn’t be able to find your way out of a paper bag without a map.  Maker!  Just once, I want to work with a band who accept that keeping your disputes in house is not just one more stupid idea from management.  Ugh!” And with that, she throws the magazine down on the little coffee table in the middle of the three sofas.  “Piece of  shit ,” she hisses at it, and then draws breath, glowering at them.  

 

Dorian doesn’t dare to look to either side of him, because he knows he will start laughing if he does.  He frowns, pursing his lips, and nods very seriously at Josephine, eyes practically watering with trying to keep his giggles down.  Honestly, it’s not that he doesn’t agree - the last few weeks have been trying, to say the least.  He has bid farewell to the last bruises of his little adventure in Denerim, and Cullen seems a lot better, though still tired.  It’s just that Josephine misses by miles the high dudgeon she is aiming for, striking instead a rather unfortunate petulant school ma’am note which just… Dorian bites the inside of his cheek, but then hears a snicker from Cullen and his nostrils flare.  That is picked up by a gargled chuckling noise from Cassandra, and then a low barking guffaw from Bull, and, oh dear, it all happens so suddenly after that, just a roller coaster which has them soon gasping with laughter and streaming at the eyes.

 

“Oh, oh, Jos… Josephine,” Cassandra eventually gasps, “Maker, you are just… just adorable.  Please, don’t be angry with us.  I… I couldn’t take the terror,” and that sets them off again.  This is only a brief squall however, and finally Dorian rubs his stomach - it hurts with laughing so much.  Throughout this he has watched Josephine, and seen the fondness of her expression, but also the worry behind it.  “Josephine,” he asks quietly, once the rest of the band have managed to get themselves a little more under control, “Is this really something you’re concerned about?”

 

She sighs.  “No, I suppose not.  Not after seeing you all laughing like that.”  She blows out a long breath, and smiles ruefully.  “Alright, I concede the point.  However, I do  _ not _ want to be kept in the dark about stuff like this.  I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.  That was part of the problem with Lily, remember?”

 

“We remember, Josie,” Bull says.  Dorian sees Cassandra shift uncomfortably in her seat and wonders what it could mean, but he files it away to see if he can glean anything further later on.  

 

“Alright then.  You all know this is the last date on the Free Marches part of the tour…”  _ Thank the Maker _ _,_ thinks Dorian, looking out the window at inner-city Starkhaven; oh certainly, it’s pretty enough, the architecture all steel-and-glass modernity, austere and foreboding, the Minanter river running lazily through it, crisscrossed by several bridges.  But there is something so…  _ slutty  _ about the way this place wears its wealth; the city parades its finery on the outside of buildings, but there is nothing here which speaks of depth, of history, or of elegance.  At least in Minrathous, there is a feeling of something lived in, something fine and worn, something treasured through a long and sometimes bloody history.  Not like here.  Josephine continues to chatter and finally tells them, “And that’s it!  Tonight, we’re officially halfway through the tour!”

 

“Can’t come soon enough,” Bull mutters, and then frowns.  He draws out his phone, which vibrates in his hand.  Dorian sees his expression change as he looks at the identification on the screen, and he cannot resist a look over Bull’s shoulder.  All he sees is the letter ‘T’ however, and then Bull says very quietly, “I gotta take this, Boss.  Sorry.”  Then he gets up and strides from the room.

 

Josephine frowns, puzzled, and then makes a resigned facial expression.  “I guess I didn’t have anything else to say anyway.  You guys can get going, I suppose.  Your soundcheck is at five, don’t be late!”

 

-|||-

 

Dorian knocks a third time and sighs.  He listens intently.  Perhaps that is a shower going inside Cullen's room.  They have been at pains to try and get over the hiccup in Wycome - Dorian has been trying very hard not to make it obvious how aware of Cullen’s past allegiances and beliefs it had made him.   _ Cullen Rutherford, this is Bored in Starkhaven calling,  _ he thinks, and then yelps and almost jumps out of his skin when Bull growls, "If he ain't answering, you'd better give up, 'vint."

 

"Oh, are we back to 'vint, now?" Dorian enquires mildly, and turns around.  Bull is standing in the doorway, shirtless as per usual, but with a rather alarming look of mingled anger and contempt on his face.  He only shrugs in reply, and so Dorian asks him, "I don't suppose you play chess?"

"Been known to, yeah.  You bored with your own reflection or something?"

"Well, even the most significant art of the age rather palls in the light of a hotel bathroom."  Dorian sniffs and narrows his eyes at Bull.  There is something going on here - Bull has not been so abrupt with him since his audition, and that was months ago now.  Instead of beating about the bush, he simply asks, "What's eating you?  You seem... different somehow."

 

It had been on the tip of his tongue to say scared, or maybe worried.  But Bull?  Scared?  No, surely he must have misread that, surely it was a trick of the light that painted that particular emotion in Bull's eye.  Bull looks at him for a moment, then takes a deep breath in.  Then he jerks his head to the side, gesturing into the room, and stands aside for Dorian to enter.  For a moment, Dorian just looks at him, feeling like this could be a very bad idea indeed.  But then, it is only Bull, and what could Bull possibly do to him?  So he takes a deep breath and strides across the corridor, entering the room in just a few steps.  Bull closes the door behind him.

 

The room is an utter mess.  To be perfectly abrupt, it is a pigsty; unmade bed, a veritable explosion of shorts (Dorian notes that there are no t-shirts - well, of course, how would Bull get them over his horns?), and coffee cups on almost every available surface.  “Oh, how the other half lives,” Dorian mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing important.  Do you have a board?”

 

“Yeah.  It’s… under here somewhere.”  Bull shuffles to his suitcase, kneeling with a grunt in front of it.  Dorian frowns as he watches the qunari move - usually, he moves swiftly, with precision and a weird joie de vivre that makes Dorian want to simultaneously roll his eyes and smile.  Today however, that is gone.  Bull is moving like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders, and before Dorian can think better of it, he asks again, “What’s wrong?”

Bull sighs.  Dorian watches as his hands come up, resting on his thighs, and he hangs his head.  After a brief moment, Bull says quietly without turning around, “Gatt got arrested.  Again.”

 

Gatt.  The name seems familiar to Dorian, and he cycles through his memory, but comes up with nothing.  So, sensing the cautious approach would be best, he asks, “I’m sorry.  Who is…”

“He’s our bass player.  That is…” Bull pauses, then continues, “He’s the bass player for Lies.  Or he was.  They’ll probably have to find someone else now.”

Dorian realises suddenly.  “The phone call you took in the meeting…”

“Yeah.  That was Tallis.  She sings, plays keyboards, generally keeps… kept… aw, fuck.  She looked after all us dorks.”  Maker, Bull sounds both angry and on the verge of tears, and Dorian cannot help but note how he shifts from present to past tense as he’s speaking about Lies, almost as if he hasn’t yet realised he’s not in that band any longer.  He sits on the arm of the sofa, silent, waiting to see if Bull will continue, and eventually he does.  “Tallis called to tell me that Gatt had been arrested in Ostwick.  Frankly, I’m surprised they even let him past the border - they come down hard on viddathari there, extra searches at the airport, I mean, you saw me at the land border.  It’s bad enough for qunari or Vashoth, looking obvious.  They even search our koslun, the priests.”  He sighs angrily, and mutters, “Those bastards are really fuckin’ gung-ho with the security when it comes to anyone looks like they might be associated with the Qun.  But now, Gatt’s been arrested for intent to injure, threat charges, all sorts of shit, and with a track record like his…”

 

Bull shakes his head.  Dorian sees the muscles in his forearms tense as he clenches his fists and is powerless to help himself as his mind recalls the feeling of those hands in his hair, nails tracing over his scalp as Bull’s cock slid in and out of him.  He swallows, shifts a little on the edge of the sofa.  “What do you mean?”

 

Bull turns to look at Dorian, moving lithely around on his haunches, one bent knee rising to his chest.  “I mean that he’s probably never getting out of prison now.  Ostwick… fuck, that idiot couldn’t have picked a worse place.  There’s nothing like an association with the Qun and a pair of pointed ears to increase the sentence duration.  They’ll have him up on conspiracy to overthrow the state as soon as look at him.  I just…”  Bull’s jaw clenches, the muscles in it protruding, and he frowns horribly at Dorian.  “I can’t help him.  He won’t accept my help, and Tallis… she just called to  _ inform me _ _,_ like I’d want to… like I’d be content to sit on the fucking sidelines.”

 

“So… Look, I’m sorry, but why exactly does this concern you so much?” Dorian frowns at Bull, “They kicked you out, didn’t they?”

Bull is silent, only staring at Dorian.  He opens his mouth slightly, then growls, “That’s not the point.  The point is, I can’t do anything to help him, I can’t…”

“Fuck can’t.”  Dorian sniffs.  “You’ve either got yourself a hero complex that you need to get over in a hurry, or you’ve got the most fucked up priorities of almost anyone I’ve ever met.  The options, as I see them, are thus: you can offer to help Gatt, if it means that much to you, or not.  If you offer, you prepare to have your offer rejected.  If you don’t, then you move on with your life.  But for goodness sake, Bull, make the decision and have done either way.”

 

Bull rises slowly and walks toward Dorian.  Every step is deliberate, measured.  Dorian takes a deep breath, Maker, he can smell Bull, and if that smell isn’t… ah, Maker of All, if it isn’t appealing, he licks his lips and raises his chin to ask, staring into Bull’s one eye, “What do you say to that?”

 

He stops, towering over Dorian.  “I say that when I want your opinion, you’ll know about it.”  He snorts, and his hand comes out so quickly that Dorian doesn’t know it’s coming until it’s already around his throat.  He stiffens, tense.  But Bull’s hand is gentle, he strokes, feather-light over Dorian’s skin, down, down toward his clavicle, then back up again, cupping him under the jaw.  “Why did you really come here?”

 

“Tru-truly, I was bored,” Dorian cannot help the slight stammer in his voice, and he loathes how it sounds, but he smiles anyway.  Bull just grins, then strokes his huge, warm hand along the line of Dorian’s throat again.  Dorian feels his breathing shallow, and his lips part as they look at each other.  Bull narrows his eye, appearing to be weighing him in his gaze.  Finally, just as the silence is beginning to feel interminable, he murmurs, “So, you wanna play chess?”

 

“Uh, no.  Not really.”  Dorian shifts again in his seat; his cock is becoming more than a little uncomfortable as Bull continues to move his fingers restlessly over the sensitive skin of his throat, the warmth of his fingers leaving traces of sensation over his skin.  “Maybe we could find some other diversion?”

 

“Bet I could think of something.  Might need you to leave that illusion of control you love so much at the door, though.

“I’m way past the door, Bull, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Bull ignores this sally, and Dorian shudders with anticipatory pleasure as the large hands continue tracing senseless patterns on his neck, both of them working together now.  Bull purrs something in Qunlat, his index fingers resting behind Dorian’s ears, still circling softly.  “You wanna tell me what you want?”

 

Dorian smiles, though it is hard to do slowly as his pulse is thumping and his mouth is very dry.  “Why don't you just… Have a guess.”

“Exploring the forbidden, huh?  Shoulda known.”  Maker, that caressing, gentle, threatening stroke and circle of Bull’s fingers will drive him mad, he can feel his cock straining now at the fly of his jeans.  It is beginning to be desperately uncomfortable, but he resists the urge to shift.  Bull seems to sense it, the corners of his mouth quirk up slightly and he says, “Before we get too far ahead of ourselves, I got protection, and lube.  You got a watchword you use?”

“No,” Dorian says, “Qunlat est; non legitur, I suppose.”

Bull laughs, and his fingers pause on Dorian’s throat.  “Okay then.  You say  _ katoh _ if you want me to stop.  No strings, no concerns, you say  _ katoh _ and it all stops.  That alright?”  When Dorian nods, Bull says, “Say it.”

Dorian quirks an eyebrow at the tone of command.  “Katoh.  Easy.”  He pauses then, still looking at Bull, asks, “And what’s yours to be?  Do you have one?”

Bull chuckles, and his fingers tighten a little, constricting around Dorian’s throat.  For an instant, Dorian almost panics, and then the tension is gone.  “Think I need one?”

 

He cannot help it, he looks up into that scarred face and smirks.  With the barest movement of thumb and forefinger, he hitches a force spell onto Bull’s wrist and yanks it upwards.  Bull’s eye widens, and he blanches slightly, cocksure grin sliding off his face.  “Yes, actually.  I do.”  Dorian tells him, then asks, “What about Asariel?”

Bull nods, “Asariel, then.”  A pause, then, “Mind letting my hand go now?”

Dorian grins, raises an eyebrow.  “Oh, I don’t know.  I might decide I rather like you like this.”  Keeping the spell in place, Dorian begins undoing the button and zipper on Bull’s truly hideous denim shorts.  He doesn’t take his eyes from Bull though, watching cautiously, wondering if he might be pushing a little hard.  “Control,” he tells Bull, who narrows his eye at the word, “Is a two way street.  If we do this,” he pauses on the word, “maybe you don’t get to have it all the time.  I like control.  I’m  _ good _ at control…”

 

“But control,” Bull growls, and Dorian is surprised enough at the sound of his voice that the spell falters, just a little, but enough for Bull to wrench free from it, “Isn’t what you need.  At least, not today.”  He rubs the now-free wrist absentmindedly.  “Giving over control - it’s not a shame thing, or it doesn’t have to be.  Handing yourself over to someone else, letting them decide for you, trusting them to give you the things that you need, it can be kind of… powerful.”

 

“Really,” Dorian says, sarcasm barbing his tone, though he is beginning to wonder.  “Well, I suppose I’ll try anything once.”  He sighs, takes his hands from the waistband of Bull’s shorts.  “Where do you want me?”

 

Bull smiles and backs off a little, seeming to consider Dorian.  Without speaking, he turns, leaving Dorian seated on the armrest of the sofa.  He walks slowly, as if he is thinking, then turns around again. “Here’s the deal.  I’m not gonna do anything without letting you know about it, and any time you wanna tap out, you can say the word.  But until you do, you do as I say. You don’t move without me telling you to, you don’t speak.”  He smiles, a little broader this time and says, “You don’t come until I say either.”  Then Bull shrugs, “I can’t control your magic, so you’re just gonna have to promise you won’t use it.  That all okay?”

“Yes.  I suppose.”

“Either yes or no, Dorian.”

Dorian snorts and rolls his eyes.  “Yes, then.”

“Okay.  Stand up.”

 

Dorian stands, smirking.  The smirk falls away as Bull walks toward him, head lowered.  The great grey hand, nails cut but still sharp-looking, comes out slowly, caresses a line from Dorian’s temple to his clavicle.  Dorian can feel his heartbeat pick up pace, his mouth well with saliva now that Bull is so close.  He bites the inside of his lip, stifling a hitch of breath.  Slowly, Bull trails the hand down further, and says, "Gonna undress you.  Nod if you understand."

 

Dorian nods.  His cock, sensing that they are done, finally done talking, quivers a little in its turgid state.  Bull puts both hands to work unbuttoning the dark blue shirt that Dorian wears, and once it is open, he pulls the two halves aside slowly.  Dorian sighs.  The anticipation is dreadful, wonderful, but most of all is the perturbing sense of worship that Bull's actions entail.  He has not said anything, but the slowness, the way his actions are of a connoisseur about to savor something rare and long-anticipated thrill and disturb Dorian in equal measure.

 

Once the shirt has been removed and folded carefully, Bull stands back a little, admiring.  As his glance sweeps up Dorian's torso, along the curves of the serpents tattooed up each arm to where they coil together, mouths open over Dorian's heart, Dorian realises he is almost panting.  Bull smiles slightly, steps forward again and quickly undoes the button and zip, tugging gently at the fabric of Dorian's jeans, pulling them over his ass.  He is careful, Dorian notes, not to even brush accidentally against his cock, which now stands fully erect, still constrained by the fabric of his underwear.  Bull, still silent, goes to his knees before Dorian.  After a moment, he says, "Foot up."  Dorian lifts a foot and Bull pulls off the boot, and then tugs the leg of the jeans off too. He pulls at the elasticated waist of Dorian’s underwear, slow, horribly slow, pulls down, carefully pulling out the waist so as not to disturb Dorian’s cock.  He repeats his earlier action a second time until Dorian stands, now above him, completely naked.

 

And still, Bull says nothing.  That massive horned head is lowered, seeming to study Dorian's ankles, his calves, now tracing a finger lightly over the back of a knee, up his thigh.  The fingers circle and weave, tracing the edges of the sigils on Dorian’s thigh, down again to the skull on his calf.  Bull rises, slowly.  The hands, Bull’s hands, rough and strong, seem to explore every inch of him, and Dorian has to fight back a moan that is bordering on impatience.  He wants Bull to take him, claim him and then to ignore him… or does he?   _ Thinking too much, _ he chastises himself, and as if to confirm this, Bull suddenly grins down at him.

 

“Walk over to the bed.  Slowly.”  Dorian does, measuring each pace, feeling his cock wag stiffly out in front of his body.  “Lie down.  On your back."

 

So he does.  Is it his pride, underneath, chafing at the control Bull is exerting?  Of course, and those words, those awful words circle like vultures once again, always;  we are alike, you and I - too much pride .  He feels sick, but lies down, on his back as commanded, and determines to stop railing against it, to allow Bull control.  To let go.  Sweet it is, and bitter, when Bull crawls onto the bed, mouth and hands moving over Dorian's body like flame consuming tinder.  When Bull hauls Dorian's legs, bent at the knees, over his shoulders to allow him to watch as Bull suckles first one ball then the next, Dorian feels his eyes flutter closed at the strange, almost ticklish sensation.  He turns his head to the side, eyes still closed, concentrating fiercely on the wet glide of Bull’s tongue, the pressure he is exerting.  After a moment, Bull draws his mouth away.  From behind the closed lids, Dorian hears him growl, “Open your eyes.  Watch me.”  Dorian’s lips part and he opens his eyes, breathing short now as he turns his head back to face Bull.  He stifles a moan, as Bull, gaze never wavering from his face, lowers his mouth once again to lick a stripe up Dorian’s perineum, then smirks.  And that expression is so full of lust, so potent and rich with desire that it makes Dorian smile back, though his breath catches in his lungs as he does.

 

It is all Dorian can do not to cry out when Bull snakes a hand over his hip to wrap a hand around his cock. Without thinking, he thrusts his own fist into his mouth, biting down on the knuckles hard.  He stifles the noise just in time, cock so stiff it hurts now, Bull’s fist working insistently backward and forward.  Bull murmurs, "Good.  Good."  A pause, then Bull hitches Dorian up further on his shoulders, and asks, "You okay?  Shoulders too tight?  Nod or shake your head."

 

Dorian shakes his head and smiles. Bull smirks, rubs his stubbled jaw against Dorian's inner thigh.  "Good.  I'm gonna eat this beautiful ass of yours, get you ready for me."

  
  


To hear it stated so baldly sends a shiver of delight through Dorian.  Maker, when was the last time he'd had someone linger over him like this?  Perhaps once, that one time with Regilius, when they thought his parents had gone boating for a week?  Bull parts his ass cheeks, then lowers his face.  Dorian can feel his nose pressed in tight against his perineum, and every breath Bull draws sends waves of sensation until  Maker, yes! that first long swipe of his tongue as it laps and swirls, delicate and soft at first, then becoming more demanding.  Slowly, or at least it seems so to Dorian, Bull works the clenched ring of muscle open with his tongue. As Dorian relaxes, Bull adjusts his grip on Dorian's ass, hefting him higher, thumbs moving alongside his tongue now, stroking the skin either side of Dorian’s hole, pulling gently, spreading spit.  Maker, it feels positively  _ filthy _ _,_ but utterly glorious as well, and Dorian cannot help but imagine the sheer volume of come which must come out of Bull, how it would feel, Maker, how it would  _ taste.  _  He has so little recollection of their previous experience together that he’s really rather relishing the feeling of new and yet vaguely familiar. 

 

Soon, too soon, Bull pulls his face back.  Dorian frowns in disappointment, and then Bull looks at him, works his mouth and spits into Dorian’s ass.   _ Disgusting, oh Maker, just fuck me, fuck me you beautiful beast _ _,_ Dorian thinks, and his face must look shamefully, pitifully needy, because Bull smiles gently at him and says, “Not long now.  You got such a sweet ass, Dorian, I could do this all day.”

 

Dorian bites his lips together, barely breathing as Bull’s thumbs now work into his ass, spreading wider, opening him.  Everything on his body is tense, needing, cock so dark with blood now that it hurts, he wants, no,  needs Bull inside him, needs it like water, like air.  He closes his eyes, reveling in the sensation, utterly overcome with it.  His fists clench in the sheets, his shoulders ache, but he hears Bull spit again and again, thumbs stroking, pulling, and finally, finally, Bull removes his hands from Dorian’s ass and strokes them along his thighs.   _ Touch me, touch my cock, Maker damn you, Bull _ _,_ Dorian demands with his eyes, but if Bull realises it, he is determined not to notice.  Carefully, he wiggles back, helping Dorian to move down his body and back onto the bed.  For a moment, they look at each other, Dorian unable to help himself - he stares at Bull’s engorged cock, the foreskin pulled away from the purple head, towering out of a nest of steel-grey hair.  Bull’s nostrils flare, and he tells Dorian, “Roll over.  Onto your knees.  Keep your head on your forearms.”

 

Dorian raises an eyebrow, grins, and turns over, positioning himself as instructed.  His smile falters as Bull runs a light finger down the cleft of his ass, circling it around the hole and then entering, just to the first knuckle.  Dorian cannot help himself now, he’s almost lost to it, he pushes back against Bull’s finger, forcing more of it inside himself.  He groans Bull’s name, elongating the single syllable as Bull withdraws the digit most of the way, just leaving the teasing tip inside him.  “What did I say about noise?”  The fingertip waggles, and Dorian just manages to stifle another groan.  Bull laughs.  “Aw, but you’ve been so good,”  the fingertip laps forward slightly, Maker, the tease is delightful, but Dorian really is reaching the end of his resistance, “And I’m all out of patience.  Just wait here a second, beautiful.  I’ll be right back.”

 

Bull’s weight is gone.  Dorian stays still, though he tries to move his eyes around the room and see what Bull might be doing.  He cannot however.  He tries to be patient, hears a crinkle of foil wrapper and Bull grunt.  Then the noise of padded footsteps approaches, and Bull tells him, “Look up.  Want you to see it.”  Dorian looks.  Bull’s cock, of course, but now swathed in not one but two condoms.   Safety first! Dorian thinks, slightly delirious now, and almost giggles.  Still, he retains enough self control to look up into Bull’s face, thinking  _ What did you want, a medal? _ , and it must have been obvious to Bull, because he grins and snorts a laugh.  “Might wanna move down that bed a bit, Dorian,” he mutters, and then stoops to plant a quick kiss on Dorian’s forehead.  “Gonna fuck you pretty hard.”

 

And Holy Andraste, so he does.  Dorian feels like he might almost be leaving a permanent impression in the mattress, such force is Bull exerting.  The rhythm starts slow, Bull edging forward in almost-vicious thrusts, pausing occasionally to spread lubricant, ask Dorian how he is, to nod or shake his head.  Dorian wants to shout at him to hurry the fuck up, just fuck me already, just but the thought is broken in two as Bull slowly penetrates deeper, Maker, the head of his cock grinding slow and sweet against Dorian’s prostate and everything just… goes away.  It’s gone, the world is gone, and here, here is the sweetest sensation, Dorian cannot help it, he groans, loud and long.  Bull stops immediately, and Dorian gasps, eyes opening swiftly.  “I won’t,” he starts to say, and then claps his hand over his mouth to show he knows his mistake.  “Good,” Bull says, and his voice is rough.  He grips into Dorian’s hips, and Dorian feels him pull out a little, then those short, sharp thrusts are back, sweet, oh, so sweet.  Dorian bites down on the muscle between thumb and forefinger, concentrating on the pain to stop himself coming before he has wrung every ounce of pleasure possible from this experience.  Some part of him is a little embarrassed at how close he is already, and he mocks himself fiercely,  _ just like a blushing virgin, honestly, show some restraint!  _

 

But oh, when Bull quickens his pace, the little grunts he makes into the dim, air-conditioned gloaming of the hotel room, the grip on Dorian’s hips tightening, he just wants, needs to talk, to say something.  Maker, Maker, Bull, so so big, so strong,  _ I’ll do what you want, I’ll do whatever you want _ _,_ he thinks, a litany, a prayer.   _ Just fuck me harder, break me, do, oh Maker, do whatever you want with me, stretch me wider, come in me, come on me, I don’t care.  I’ll be yours, I’ll be yours, Maker, your cock, your cock! _  It is almost too much, he’s almost aware from outside of himself of the wetish slap of Bull’s tightening balls against his perineum, the sweet/awful of the tension coiling within him.  He reaches down, toward himself, but Bull grunts, “Mine,” and bats his hand away.  Dorian whimpers, aching for a touch, anything against himself.  But then he feels the lightest touch on his cock, and he groans again, the pitch of it desperate now, pleading, and he clamps his hand down harder, screwing his eyes closed as the sensation burns within him, Bulls fingers are just trailing delicately over his cock, barely gripping him, just sliding the tips of his fingers against the rigid flesh.  And oh, it is awful, it is wonderful and terrible this feeling, this need as Bull thrusts harder into him, his breathing becoming ragged, and he moans then, he moans Dorian’s name, and Dorian has never heard anything sweeter, never in,  _ oh,  _ Bull’s hand! Suddenly, as Bull comes, the fingers close around Dorian’s cock, so tightly, and he cannot help himself, he yells then, through his fingers, yells Bull’s name.  He is so close, Bull slides the hand still on Dorian’s hip forward, pushing Dorian’s cock into his fist and whispers roughly, “Come on, Dorian, come for me.”

 

Dorian doesn’t need to be told twice.  That hand, the oh oh he’s  drooling , ugh disgusting, wet patch on the sheets against his cheek, and oh the…  his knees as he thrusts, the cock in his ass and the hand on his cock, sweet Maker, oh Bull, oh Bull... he can’t take much more but he wants wants to yes. and then it peaks the white wave falls over his eyes and there is nothing, nothing there behind the Veil for him but the Fade, yes the Fade is there and he just he the the Fade         the

 

“Fuck!   _ Fuck! _  Dorian, shit, what the fuck was that?”

Dorian opens his eyes and it is all he can do not to laugh.  Bull is still in him, softening within Dorian as he stares at the window.  The blinds are now a mass of flames, licking upward eagerly toward the ceiling.  A horrible, electronic blaring begins, and Dorian laughs again, panic and delight at the same time.  He shifts, pushing himself up onto his hands, and looks behind him at Bull.  “Do you mind? I should really put that out.”

  
“Yeah, I guess,” Bull tells him, looking frankly astonished, and Dorian laughs again.  He waits for Bull to pull out, but in the mere moments that it takes, the sprinklers have come on, dousing the entire room.  “Kaffas,” Dorian says, looking at the wall opposite, where the fire is slowly sinking under the jets of water.  It is Bull’s turn to laugh, and Dorian turns to glare at him.  “Saves on clean up, I guess,” Bull grins.  Dorian can only groan.  They are a mess, drenched and naked and filthy with sweat and come, and yet… He shakes his head, and smirks, looking at Bull as he carefully hides the flame kindling in his heart.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Bull suffer a little mockery. Cassandra makes concessions. Dorian listens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags: grief and grieving, death. Old tags which apply: past relationships, developing relationships, family.  
> New characters: Regalyan d'Marcal, Lucius Corin, Byron, Martel, Anthony Pentaghast (all of these are just mentions)

* * *

“Scratch on the wall is a ghost of you / You take them all and make them true / You don’t know me, but you will.”  

 _Failure_ _,_ Red Fang ( _Whales and Leeches_ _,_ 2013) 

* * *

 

 

“...and then, of course, these two turn up, looking like drowned rats…”

“I’m too big to be a rat, Cass…”

“Well, okay, a drowned rat and a drowned… elephant…”

Bull laughs, “I didn’t think elephants could drown…”

 

Cassandra snorts in disgust, and Cullen snickers.  Dorian isn’t really listening to the conversation, allowing it to flow around him as he strums absentmindedly on Cassandra’s acoustic, a beat-up looking Ovation.  He’s trying to find a progression that will work for some lyrics that he’s had bouncing around in his head for the last few days, a song that might work to a more blues-oriented riff.  They are all sitting around in the hotel room, the windows wide open, the hot, stale-smelling air of Nevarra City blowing in as the sun slinks away from its noonday zenith. Dorian plays the chord again, listening carefully, wondering if the E is going flat, but he looks up from the guitar sharply when he hears his name repeated, to ask, “I’m sorry?”

 

Cullen raises an eyebrow and smirks.  “Just wondering what set the fire alarms off.”

Dorian looks at Bull, who grins and shrugs.  Dorian sighs loudly and looks back down at the guitar.  

“We were… playing chess, and it got a little heated.”

“Uh _huh_ _,_ ” Cassandra says, and pokes him in the ribs.  Dorian yelps and frowns at her, then asks, “Do you want to write this song with me or not?”

 

Cassandra nods, shifting over to grab the pad of paper that Dorian has written his drafted lyrics on.  As she’s scanning it, Cullen scratches his neck and looks sidelong at Bull. “Heated, you say...”  He grins and Dorian wrinkles his nose, still looking down at the guitar.  "Must have been a lot of friction on that chessboard, huh?"  Dorian bites back a jibe about the shade of red Cullen has just gone and settles for a sigh instead.

 

“Yeah,” Bull says slowly, and yawns.  He stretches his arms over his head, and his back crackles and pops. “Eurgh,” Dorian says, “that’s gross.”

“It’s no different to you cracking your knuckles.  And you’ll fuck your back up all hunched over like that.”

Dorian huffs and straightens his spine, then looks at Bull.  “Happy now?”

Bull grins, then Cassandra looks momentarily abashed.  “Shit, I nearly forgot.  Josie asked me to give you something before she left yesterday.  Wait!”  And she scrambles up from the sofa, flinging the lyrics sheet onto the table.  Dorian looks across at Bull and Cullen, puzzled.  Cullen shakes his head and shrugs, but Bull grins.  “Just you wait,” he says.  Cassandra comes back into the main area and chucks a white foolscap envelope onto the sofa next to Dorian.  “That came for you.”

 

There is a logo in the corner of the envelope.  It is not the Inquisition Records logo, however - this is a stylised feather, with the words Apostasy Music underneath in a slim, dark red sans-serif.  His name is written in bold black marker on the outside, and Dorian’s eyes grow round with barely suppressed delight as he realises what this must be.

 

Quickly, he breaks the seal and draws out four all-access passes.  Fader is written in a strange geometric font, the colour of new leaves across the bottom of the cards inside their plastic packets.  Underneath a picture of a halla skull are the words _Revive Tour 9:45 Dragon_ _._  A small sheet of paper drops out of the envelope along with the passes.  Dorian picks it up to read, written in purple ballpoint pen in large, back-sloping handwriting, decorated with pictures of flowers:

 

    Dorian,

    Can’t wait to see you in Val Royeaux!  Hope Cullen is feeling better, and sending hugs to

    you and Cass and Bull.

        lots of lovely love, Merrill (and Izzy and Tal and Anders)

            xxxxx

 

“Adorable,” Dorian mutters, and puts the four passes back into the envelope.  He sighs, grinning hugely, and Bull chuckles.  “What is it?” Cullen asks.  Dorian, without thinking, tells him, “Merrill came through on the Fader tickets.”  He cackles, pressing the envelope to his chest, and Cassandra laughs.  “Josie must have sent them tickets to our show in Val Royeaux.  Oh, Maker, oh no, that means they’re coming to our show… fasta vass…”

Bull laughs at him then, and raises his eyebrows.  “You worried you’re gonna fuck it all up in front of Fader?  Aw, ka… Dorian.  That’s cute.”

Dorian frowns at him, opens his mouth to ask what the _ka_ was all about, when he accidentally looks at Cullen.  

 

Cullen’s face is worried, and he looks almost sick.  After a noisy swallow, he says faintly, “Fader?  You… uh… you invited Fader to our show?”

“Oh, Cullen.”  Dorian’s stomach drops, but he flaps a hand like it was not even a concern.  “Merrill expressed an interest in coming to one of our shows in Val Royeaux, so I…”

“No.  No,” Cullen is shaking his head, and although he is smiling, it is tense, and Dorian can see his hands have balled themselves into fists on his knees.  Dorian can see that Cullen is trying hard, wrestling with his emotions and he feels badly for him.  “Cullen,” he starts soothingly, but Cullen is still shaking his head.

 

Dorian turns to Cassandra in mute appeal. “Cullen.  It’s just tickets.”  Cassandra looks at him, her face a mixture of sympathy and exasperation.  “You don’t have to go.  You don’t have to socialise with them if they come to our gig, for goodness sake.  And really, they might not all come.  I can’t imagine Anders being there. But even if they do, I’ll be there, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.  And, I suppose,”  she lowers her voice, looking at him intently, “You might look at it as an opportunity.  That however is entirely up to you.”

 

Cullen takes a deep breath.  He blows it out shakily, then lowers his head.  “Okay.  Yes.  Alright.”  He swallows, loosens his fists and looks at Dorian.  “Sorry,” he says, his brow knitting in concern.  Dorian shakes his head and smiles winningly.  “Not to worry.  I did rather spring it on you.  I’m sorry for that.”

 

Bull frowns a little and takes a deep breath.  He looks at Cullen.  His voice is blithe, but soft when he asks, “You wanna come for a walk with me?  These guitar dorks don’t need us here.”

“You know, I’m technically a guitar dork too,”  Cullen tells him, crossing his arms to fold his hands over each elbow, as if he is hugging himself.  Then he shrugs, “I suppose so.  Are we going anywhere?”

“We’ll know when we get there.  And nah, bass is a rhythm instrument, man.  C’mon.”

 

Cullen shakes his head and rises.  He looks at Dorian worriedly as Bull gets up and strides toward the door, then smiles as if he knows he is being jollied along, but is willing to tolerate it. “Arguing with qunari - that’s a complete waste of time.  He’s a feisty bubo caveman if I ever saw one.”

Dorian laughs, shaking his head.  It has become rather a running joke, this mispronunciation of the phrase _festis bei umo canavarum,_ and it doesn’t seem to be getting old for either of them.  It’s actually just… nice to have someone to share a joke with, Dorian thinks, then mentally rolls his eyes at himself.   _You are the definition of tragedy_ _,_ he thinks, and then, as the door closes behind Bull and Cullen, Cassandra flips over the page of lyrics and asks, “Do you have a pen?”

 

They work in relative quiet for a while.  Cassandra asks for her guitar back, so Dorian goes to fetch his own, a Takamine P6JC semi-acoustic he’s been breaking in.  After a solid forty five minutes of them playing iterations of the same sort of chord structure back to each other, Cassandra hits a variation and runs with it, hard.  Dorian grins, listening carefully, watching Cassandra’s left hand as she cycles through the progression, once, then again.  She’s very good, her playing extraordinarily fluid and thoughtful at the same time.  He moves his fingers over his own fretboard, mimicking Cassandra’s movements, then softly plays an attempt at a rhythm part, highlighting some of the chords and harmonizing with others.  

 

Cassandra smiles, so the next time around, Dorian plays a little louder, and then Cassandra says, “I’m going to try a bridge, hang on…” So Dorian hangs back, giving her the space to attempt it.  She only gets a four count in, and then wrinkles her nose and stops.  “That didn’t come out the way I’d intended.”  She sighs, letting all the air out in a big rush, and stretches her neck in either direction.  She frowns a little, jiggles in her seat, then looks up and around the room.  “Do you have the time?”

 

Dorian has to look at his phone.  He tells her, and she sighs again, almost an irritated sound.  “I’m sorry.  I have to… I have to go do something.”

“Oh.  Is it a personal thing?”

“Yes,” she tells him, rising from her seat and leaning the guitar against the armrest of the sofa.  He looks at her, curious, but not willing to ask.   She glances at him and raises her eyebrows.  Slowly, cautiously, she tells him, “I… need to go and pay obeisance at my family crypt.  It takes ages, and it’s boring, but… I haven’t done it in years, and I really need to.”

 

Dorian sits up a little straighter, tilts his head.  “Cassandra, if it isn’t very impolitic to ask… may I come with you?”

Cassandra frowns, and Dorian says hastily, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, and I… Maker, I don’t view it as a tourist opportunity or anything so uncouth…”

“It’s boring though, Dorian, and the catacombs all stink of stale incense…”

“...that’s fine, I don’t mind…”

“They’re dusty, and kind of gross, and cold… and…”

“It’s private, I know, I don’t want to intrude…”

 

Cassandra sighs, looks at her hands.  “You can come.  Just… if you tell anyone…”  She glares at him, and Dorian bites his lip.  “I won’t.  I promise.  I won’t say a word.”  

 

-|||-

 

Cassandra was right.  The catacombs don’t smell _good_ _,_ that’s for certain.  The air is chilly, reeks of incense and mild rot and dust.  The Mortalitasi who had greeted Cassandra at the mouth of the narrow passage had narrowed her eyes at Dorian but didn’t question his presence.  The walls are dry, the light dim and blueish.  Dorian can feel the deep magic of the place; the stench of the magic is almost as thick as the smell of the incense, almost physical.  He breathes deep, clutching his jacket closer about himself as they follow the Mortalitasi down the narrow corridor, cut directly into the rock.  Other corridors branch off from the main one, but they follow for what seems like a long time, deeper and deeper into the hillside.  

 

Dorian’s breath hangs in the air and he can barely feel the tips of his fingers, his toes cold and sore inside his boots by the time they arrive at the Pentaghast vault.  Cassandra has walked in silence with her head bowed thus far, barely murmuring answers to the Mortalitasi questioning.  They enter a small tomb, skulls and femurs stacked along niches cut into the bottom part of each of the walls.  The whole space is cut in the shape of an octagon, and really quite, quite beautiful; deep lapis and bronze votives, bright with veilfire which reflects from the blue and gold tiled floor.  All around the walls are niches, cut directly into the rock, and they are all filled with corpses, bound tightly and sumptuously in shreds of pale cotton, embroidered with silk thread in black, with tiny seed-pearls stitched into the decoration.  The niches seem to go very far into the rock, radiating out from the centre like a starburst.  Dorian peers into the darkness behind one, and sees that the bound corpses go back, one on top of the other as far as he can see.  The most conspicuous object in the room, however, is the corpse on the throne.  The throne itself is florid, almost ostentatious in its decoration - white gold and sapphires, shapes of crystal grace wrought into the metal.  The corpse is bound in a similar fashion to the others but in black cotton, stitched with gold thread, with the same seed pearls and some sort of bead which shines like diamonds.  Its face, or rather, where its face would have been, is left unbound.  The shrunken visage seems to leer at Dorian, and he turns his head to look at Cassandra, to ask who it is.  The look on her face makes him pause however, and Cassandra takes a deep breath in to tell the Mortalitasi, who is humming under her breath, “Leave us, please.”

 

The woman gives her a stunned look, “But, Madame, it is…”

Cassandra merely looks at the woman, who swallows and inclines her head.  “As you wish.  Should I tell your unc…”

“What do you think?  I am here for my brother, no one else.”

 

The woman nods, and hurries from the chamber, closing the door behind her.  Cassandra makes a noise of disgust and sighs.  “My uncle.  He brought me here when I was very young, and… it… changed things for me.  Changed his opinion of me.”

Dorian frowns, wonders briefly if it would be impolite, then decides that Cassandra has the option of refusing him if he asks.  “What do you mean?”

 

She smiles, and nods her head at the corpse on the throne.  “Prior to that visit, I was mostly just a nuisance.  But… That is Caspar Pentaghast, the first of our line, great dragon slayer and warrior.  When I was last here, he inclined his head and smiled at me.  A sad smile, I thought at the time.”

“But…”

“Yes.  He’s been dead for rather a while.”  Cassandra smiles a little at Dorian, then looks back at the corpse.  Dorian bites back the question of how the thing, Caspar Pentaghast’s corpse, could smile when it has no lips to smile with.   _Interesting customs,_ he thinks, and listens carefully as Cassandra tells him, “Uncle thought it meant I was destined for greatness, thought that it meant I was somehow special.  If he had taken the time to get to know me, he would have realised that I am at my best as a functionary, a tool.”  She smiles again at the corpse, “I can enable greatness, but I don’t want it for myself.  I never have.”  She wraps her arms around herself and frowns, then says softly, “There are things I need to do here, Dorian.  Do you mind waiting, just over there?  I promise I won’t be long.”

  


So Dorian waits, watching as Cassandra kneels before a smallish, narrow niche and puts her hand on the bound corpse that it contains.  The black hair is long, the eyes long since gone, but the flesh is still pale, only beginning to grey a little around the edges.  As Cassandra mutters under her breath, Dorian thinks he sees the bindings around the corpse, which looks to him like that of a young man, begin to swell and recede in some kind of rhythm, like the thing… like the thing was breathing.  But surely, no… he averts his eyes, looking instead at the other corpses, wondering what on earth the Nevarrans do during a Blight, or something similar to what was reported to have happened at Fisher’s End in the South.  There is a lot here that has to do with his own magical education, and he recognises a few elements of the glyphs either side of the entrance - ones for revival and resistance.  They are out of context as he knows them, but still, it is interesting.  He chances a glance at Cassandra, sees her shoulders shaking and glances away, abashed.  

 

-|||-

 

Eventually, they come back out into the daylight.  Cassandra has been quiet, subdued on their way back through the tunnels.  Dorian sighs when they reach the sun, and Cassandra looks back at him with something like apology in her eyes.  “I told you it would be dull.”

“That you did.  It wasn’t though.”  Dorian wants to ask her about everything he’s just seen, he has so many questions, but his manners prevent him from asking.  So instead he raises his eyebrows and jokes, “It _was_ cold, however.  How you could kneel on that floor is anyone’s guess.”

Cassandra laughs.  “I don’t know myself.  It wasn’t the cold that bothered me - it was my knees.  I should have reminded the Mortalitasi to give me her damn cushion.  They always have cushions…”  She twirls the car keys over her finger, then depresses a button on the alarm; the turn signal lights flash once, and the car unlocks.  

“So,” Dorian says as he opens the passenger side door, “Who was that you were praying for?”

 

Cassandra pauses for a moment, then gets in.  She waits as Dorian gets into the passenger seat, then tells him, “My brother.”  She pauses for a moment, then adds, “He… died young.”  She frowns, lapsing into silence, then starts the engine.  

Dorian inhales and bites his lip.  “Sorry, I didn’t…”

“No, no.  You were bound to ask.  Even after all this time, his… his death is still difficult.”  

 

Cassandra sighs, then maneuvers the car slowly out of the parking space.  There is silence for a while, as she navigates the other parked cars and then makes her way out of the exit and into the stream of traffic.  It is a public holiday in Nevarra tomorrow, and traffic is heavy out of the city, in the opposite direction to that which they are headed in.  Dorian sees cars filled with families, with tents and canoes and all manner of things.  He smiles, remembering the times he and Felix had spent at the Alexius’ estate - sneaking fruit from the orchard, bathing and skimming stones in the lake.  Those days shine like jewels in a midden, bright in the wastelands of his subconscious.  It is funny, he thinks, how life fills up with noise, leaves you craving the tiny, quiet moments.  And yet when those moments arrive, he cannot wait for them to be gone again.

 

Cassandra sighs, breaking his reverie.  She glances at him quickly, then back to the road.  “Do you mind if I ask you something?”  

Dorian looks at her, smiling.  “It depends what it is,” he says airily, “If you ask, I can always say no.”

Cassandra nods, keeping her eyes on the traffic ahead of her.  She takes a deep breath and asks, “Do you love him?”

 

Dorian is stunned into silence.   “I…” he begins, then pauses, trying to gather his thoughts.  It is clearly no use pleading ignorance; Cassandra had seen them both coming out of Bull’s room after Dorian had set off the fire alarm back in Starkhaven, had smiled a little at the state of them, but said nothing at the time.  She has not spoken of it since, apart from the mockery he and Bull had recieved this morning, and Dorian had thought that she simply wasn’t interested; had indeed sent a silent prayer of thanks that he would not be expected to discuss it seriously.  It would appear, however, that she’s been biding her time.  Dorian lifts his chin, looks out the window, then back at her sharply, deciding not to decide, hoping that that will deflect her.  “To be honest, Cassandra, I’m not sure.”

 

She only nods.  A moment’s silence more, and he thinks that she’s been satisfied, when she glances at him again.  “I’m going to tell you something, and you can take it how you like.  Maker knows, I’m hardly in a position to offer any advice on this shit, and it’s really not my place to, so… just…”  She sighs, irritated, and shrugs.  “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.  You’re big enough to make your own decisions.  But…” Cassandra clenches her jaw and mutters, “I have only been in love once.  I’ve been infatuated, certainly, and I’ve had crushes, but nothing like this.”  She takes a deep breath in.  “He… he was a DJ.  We met at a party, some White Chant thing.  I hate shit like that; I feel like I’m hunted, like I’m a lamb in a wolf’s den.  This one was bad - Byron, from Fear/Conspiracy was there, and a couple of other people that I liked, but it was the beginning of the end for Seek Truth, and Lucius and Martel had been frosting me all week.”  

 

“He… he was charming.  Sweet, kind of gentlemanly, even.”  She laughs a little, and it sounds bitter to Dorian’s ears, “People, men in particular, take me one of two ways in this industry.  Usually they begin by thinking I’m some kind of groupie, or a moron, and when they realise I’m _that_ guitar player from _that_ band, they think I’m a ball-buster.  But… ‘Galyan, Regalyan, he didn’t.  I don’t know if it’s just because we came from such different professional arenas, or just… it was just his way, but he didn’t treat me like anyone else has, either before or since.”

 

“It was that, the strangeness, the… how he didn’t fulfil any of my preconceived notions of how a DJ was supposed to be, I mean…”  she smiles and glances at him, “We sort of think that they’re fairly talentless, or I did.  I thought it didn’t take much to slam a couple of songs together and a different beat behind it.  But it really does.  It’s a completely different way of listening to things.  And when you think about how, in Orlais, that entire style of music is pretty much banned, underground entirely…”  She pauses, shakes her head.  “Anyway, because we knew it would be weird, we never said anything to our friends, that we had started seeing each other.  And between tour schedules, and recording, we didn’t see each other physically for quite long stretches of time.  But we… we spoke every day, and messaged each other, and,” she laughs again, that bitter, hollow sound, “I have to admit that the clandestine nature of it all made it so romantic and appealing.  I loved the idea of him, and then, before I knew it, I loved him.  He was so gentle, so kind, I loved him, but I… I never said.”

 

Dorian looks at her, surreptitiously, and sees her jaw work again.  He is unable to help noticing the past tense of her words, and wonders where she is going with this.  But this is the longest, most personal conversation that he has ever had with Cassandra, and so he holds his tongue.  They are driving along an open stretch of road, the strange, lunar landscape rushing by.  The sun is hanging low in the sky, wreathed in purples and pinks.  Then Cassandra asks, her voice low, “Did you ever hear what happened at Temple, the Temple club up in Haven?”

 

Dorian shakes his head, then a brief recollection rises into his mind.  “Wasn’t that… Oh, Andraste, wasn’t that the one that…” he pauses, unsure of how to phrase it, and then Cassandra saves him the trouble.  

“Yes.  It exploded.  There was a leak in the gas mains pipe just outside the building.  It was only a small venue, but extraordinarily popular - it was one of the first EDM venues in Thedas.  On the night of the explosion…”  But Cassandra puts a hand to her mouth suddenly, and moans.  The road is not busy, but she flips her indicator on and pulls off to the hard shoulder carefully.  Dorian cannot quite believe it; for someone clearly so distressed, she drives very well.  Once the car is stopped, Cassandra leans forward, putting her forearms against the steering wheel.  Her eyes are covered, and for a moment Dorian is worried that she is going to start crying.  Honestly, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if she did, but instead, after a few deep breaths, Cassandra resumes speaking from the darkness of her own encircled arms.  “On the night of the explosion, the club was packed.  It was ‘Galyan’s first gig there.  He had been nervous about it, but also elated - it’s a special thing, to be invited to play at Temple.  Or it was.  There were too many people in the club, far too many, way past any legal fire risk numbers.  But Haven… it’s a little wild-west up there, not much regulation, the Fereldan government never seems to give it much trouble.  I suppose they can’t afford to; Fereldan’s been in the middle of a depression for ages now.  They never found out how many truly died in the fire.  But… I can’t help but think that maybe… if they’d been a little stricter… maybe ‘Galyan would have gotten out.  Maybe he would have lived.”

 

“I like to think that he knew that I loved him.  I tell myself that, even though I never told him.  I tell myself that actions speak far louder than words, that we acted as if we loved each other, and that was all that mattered.  But…” And here she raises her head to look at him, and her eyes are dry but pleading, “But I know that that is cold comfort.  He died not knowing how I felt, how I feel about him.  Dorian, I won’t give you advice, but I will tell you - if you decide that you love Bull, don’t pretend that you’ll be happy not telling him.  Tell him.  And if he lets you, keep telling him.”  Her jaw works and she shakes her head.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t want to stomp around in your personal business.  Truly...I…”

 

“Cassandra,” Dorian says quietly, “I know your heart is in the right place.  And I appreciate the sentiment.”  He feels damn uncomfortable with the sentiment, in all actuality, but he’s not going to turn this car ride into True Confessions, for goodness sake.  He huffs, staring at his hands. Then, without looking at her directly, he plucks one of her hands from the steering wheel and holds it.  She tenses, then after a moment, allows the contact.  Dorian sighs.  “I think I know where you’re coming from.  But I… I don’t know what this thing is, if it’s even a thing, between Bull and I.”  He realises, with some chagrin, that this is the first time that he’s acknowledged that anything has taken place between them.  “It’s probably nothing, you know.”  He smiles at her, then says mischievously, “Nothing that either of us can’t fuck out of our systems, anyway.”

 

“Ugh, Dorian.”  Cassandra pulls her hand out of his, and glares at him.  “You are ridiculous.”  Then she smiles slightly and shrugs, “Well, whatever.  You’re both adults.  Or at least adult-shaped people.  I’m not even going to attempt to understand it.”

“Probably a wise decision,” Dorian sniffs, and smiles.  When Cassandra has started the car and pulled back out onto the deserted highway back to the Nevarra City centre, he watches the passing landscape for a moment and then tells her, “Thank you.  For bringing me with you, and for… you know.  Telling me about Regalyan.  I appreciate your honesty.”  He smiles again, raising an eyebrow, “But if you think an A minor to G major progression is going to work…”

Cassandra grimaces, “It’ll work, you’ve just got to maintain that one chord!  Look, if we put a capo on the first fret and…”

  
Dorian smiles, listening to Cassandra tell him all about where she thinks the song they are writing should go.  He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand her, not fully at least, but perhaps he is getting under her skin.  And perhaps, he thinks, as his smile widens, perhaps she is getting under his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \+ Most of this chapter might seem super-confusing if you haven't seen the film 'Dawn of the Seeker'. I've also always wanted to incorporate some degree of wish fulfilment for Dorian regarding the trip he mentions in-game that he and his family took to Nevarra when he was young. He says that he wanted to visit one of the catacombs, but they didn't (for some reason, which is never alluded to). So, this was me combining that, and some stuff that I read in WoT2 about Caspar Pentaghast.
> 
> \+ The chord progression that I was thinking of, which is mentioned (sorta) at the end there is taken from [Love is Blindness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZWir6wUkPtw), by Jack White (well, it's a cover of a U2 song, but still, Jack White's version is what I was thinking of for this particular thing). It's on the 2012 album Blunderbuss, and also on the soundtrack for the movie 'The Great Gatsby'. 
> 
> \+ You're getting two chapters in quick succession if you're following along, since I won't be able to post on the weekend... lucky ducks :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Val Royeaux. Dorian gets nervous about a few things. Vivi makes everyone else nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags: denial of feelings,  
> New characters: Vivienne de Fer

* * *

“Tire tracks all across your back, I can, I can see you had your fun /  But, darlin' can't you see my signals turn from green to red? / And with you I can see a traffic jam straight up ahead…” 

_ Crosstown Traffic _ _,_ Jimi Hendrix ( _ Electric Ladyland,  _ 1968)

* * *

 

 

The sun shines down, and the asphalt stinks.  The waft of it comes in the open windows of the bus as they roll into Val Royeaux down the impressive width of l’Avenue du Soleil.  It used to be only one of two entrances to the city, Dorian remembers, but the Sun Gates have long since been dwarfed by the skyscrapers which tower over the city skyline.  He looks at the gates with interest as they crawl through in the heavy traffic, but cannot make out the figures in relief upon it.  

 

He glances down the bus.  Cassandra is muttering something to Cullen, who is nodding slowly.  She is speaking with her hands, making a pushing gesture.  She catches Dorian’s eye and smiles slightly, then goes back to looking at Cullen.  Bull elbows Dorian and offers him his ear buds.  “Listen to this.”

 

“Ugh.  Alright then,” Dorian tells him, grudgingly taking the headphones from him.  He puts them into his ears, grimacing, and Bull grins at him.  Dorian is expecting rather a rubbish song, but while it is certainly heavy, the feel is more ponderous, thoughtful than he might have guessed.  It is simple, a repetition to the heavy drum beat which is replicated in the bass.  But then the lyrics start, and there is a surprising, wonderful delicacy to the singing.  Dorian listens closely, and hears:

 

_On the edge of the blue sky_

_Falling backwards through blue light_

_Everyone saying it's alright_

_I'd always thought you'd tell me_

 

It’s not technically accomplished, or even remarkable singing, but somehow the lyrics themselves go through him; they sound wistful, almost sad.  He frowns, glancing at Bull, who smiles and folds his arms over his chest.  There is more in the same vein, and then the chorus kicks in, and Dorian sucks in breath in recognition:

 

_Guess I'll be anxious anymore_

_Fell in love with feeling overwrought_

_Guess I'll be anxious anymore_

_Myself at the edge of every thought_

_My blood distorts all my senses_

_Trying to make it work, put my heart on the canvas_

_ooooh…._

_Let my blood fill up my skin_

 

What is it about this song?  He can't help it, he glances at Bull, feels like the qunari is trying to tell him something without saying anything.  The bridge echoes, distorted guitars in Dorian’s ears and the second verse starts.  Bull looks back at him, smiles worriedly, then glances away, and that feeling of just missing something important intensifies.  Dorian listens to the fourth verse:

 

_Keep on the edge of each night_

_Counting backwards with each try_

_Want that feeling of wound tight_

_I'd always want to tell you_

 

 _Tell me what?_ Dorian thinks as the chorus repeats.  Finally, the last chord fades away and the song finishes.  He pulls the headphones out, hands them back to Bull, who asks, "Whadja think?"

 

"Good."  The silence between them is palpable almost, deep and strange.  "Very good.  I like the change before the chorus.  And the... and the lyrics."

"Yeah," Bull cups the headphones in between his massive hands.  "Yeah, me too."  Bull takes a deep breath.  He swallows and, his voice lowered, tells Dorian, "You know, it doesn't have to be this hard all the time.  All you gotta do is decide what you want.  But, uh, just so you know..."

 

"Oh Maker, let's not do this.  Bull, please," Dorian almost stops himself, but terror keeps his voice going, the words spilling out, "I... just don't tell me you've fallen in love with me.  My goodness!  The irony!" _There's been no-one else, no-one else but you_ he thinks, then feels a sudden, savage bitterness burst into his mind.  He tilts his head, haughty and bored, ignoring the pitch and yaw of his stomach.  “I couldn’t blame you of course.  I’m extraordinarily lovable…”

 

“You know, you’re really not.  You’re a bit of an arrogant shit, you know that?  Find it hard to believe no-one’s told you that.”  Bull shakes his head.  “It’s fine.  In fact, I kind of like it.  You got a lot to be arrogant about.  I was just gonna tell you I realise you’re carrying a lot of shit around, baggage that comes with your family, who they are, what they did to you.  I know what it is to feel abandoned.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, and clicks his tongue impatiently, though he feels the panic rising, wonders what has given him away.  “You don’t know me.  I’m fine, and if I wasn’t… well, Bull, we have fun, but don’t think that gives you a lien on my emotions.  I’m fine.”

 

“Uh huh.”  Bull shifts in his seat, sighs.  The bus is slowing now, and Dorian glances out the window.  He sees quite a crowd outside the hotel, and the cheering… Maker, they’re here for them.   _For us_ _,_ Dorian corrects, and he sees Bull looking at him.  “Oh, _what_?” Dorian glares when he catches the expression on Bull’s face.  “Dunno, Dorian.  I just don’t know.”

 

“Come on, you two,” Cassandra says, “Let’s get going.  This’ll get worse before it gets better.”  She snorts disgustedly, a noise that Dorian has heard so often over the tour that he almost doesn’t hear it any more.  He grins, still looking out the window, almost basking in the adulation, and Cullen laughs behind him.  He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and says ruefully, “Glad someone likes this shit.”

 

-|||-

 

"I am so sorry about that!"  Josephine is pacing, her full, dark purple skirt swirling around her calves.  She's dressed up for Val Royeaux, Dorian smiles to himself, glad that the first thing he did once they had made it through the gauntlet of fans was shower and change.  "There seem to be a lot more people in town - with you, Fader and Harellan, plus Knives Where You Least Expect Them... Oh!  That reminds me, Vivi's people have already been onto us, she wants a meet and greet before the show...

"Josie, chill.  I know Vivi, she just wants to..."

"Bull, it's all organised but thank you.  I was just saying..."

"We know, Josephine,"  Cullen smiles at her, calmly.  He rubs an eye, then looks at her hopefully, "You know we appreciate everything you do for us, don't you?"

 

Josephine just laughs.  "Oh, Cullen.  Don't try to get out of it that easily.  She wants to see the whole band."  She sighs, rolls her eyes and glances at Dorian, "Especially you.   _Whatever Varric says about Monsieur Pavus, I'm sure not all of it can be true.  I would have heard of him otherwise.  I make a point of having excellent contacts, even in Imperium Records._  Those exact words."

"Hmm," Dorian says, "I can't decide how insulted I'm supposed to be about that."

"On a scale of 1 to Vivi de Fer, I'd say... very."  Josephine shrugs, then her face brightens, "I remembered the tickets, by the way.  Thank you for your message."

"Thank the Maker!  Did you ever hear back from..."

"Yes, Isabela and Merrill are definite, Hawke and Anders less so. You'll just have to wait and see."

 

"Patience isn't a skill Dorian’s acquired," Cassandra laughs, and says to Dorian, "Maker, you're such a _groupie_..."

“I am not!  And anyway, you can’t tell me that if it was Lycanthrope you wouldn’t be all over him like a bad rash…”

“Kids!  Kids,” Bull laughs, and Cassandra raises her eyebrows.  

“So, are we all going tomorrow night?”  She is pointedly not looking at Cullen when she asks, though it is Cullen who answers first.  “Yeah. I mean… I’m going.  I… might not stick around, but it’d be interesting to see them play.  It’s been a while.”

“Yes.  It has.”  Cassandra looks at him then, and smiles.  It’s a rather charming smile too, soft and sweet, hopeful.  Dorian feels a smirk pull at his lips and he bites the inside of his cheek to try and stop it.  There is a moment of quiet, then Cassandra asks, “So?  Tell us about Vivi please, Josie?”

 

“That’s this afternoon, three thirty.”  Josephine chuckles and says, “I told her we’d need to keep it brief, since today is a travel day, and her people acknowledged that you’d all be tired, but Vivi wasn’t having any of it.  I tried telling her that you’ll be in Montsimmard at the same time as well, but she said something along the lines of _if you can’t meet the influential in Val Royeaux, then they’re obviously not worth meeting_ _._  So, as usual, Vivi gets her way.”  

 

-|||-

 

 _And getting your way becomes second nature,_ Dorian thinks to himself as Bull tugs gently at the ring in his nipple.  “C’mon, Dorian, talk to me.  What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing.  Just thinking.”  He raises his finger to his lips, curls his mustache without thinking, and Bull smirks.  “Whatcha worried about?  Is it Vivi?”

He can still smell Bull on his fingertips.  They hadn’t even managed to get to the bed this time - Bull had slammed Dorian back into the door as soon as it had closed behind him, Dorian undoing his belt as quickly as he could as Bull knelt before him, holding tightly onto his shoulders.  His nails had scored down Dorian’s chest, leaving faint welts behind even through his shirt, and he had sucked his cock with Dorian’s back to the door, fingering Dorian’s ass with his pants around his ankles, and bought him to the brink twice.  Finally, when Dorian was almost whimpering in frustration, Bull had laughed, helped him to tear his pants away from one foot, then pulled him to his knees and had him ride his cock.   It still puzzles Dorian, how giving up control, even just a tiny amount, for just a little while, can be so pleasurable.  It goes against everything he’d thought he’d known about himself.  But Bull, somehow, seems to know this already - it’s either a freakishly correct guess, or the qunari really is much more observant than Dorian would ever have credited him with.

 

When he cannot let the silence go on any longer, Dorian huffs.  “It’s Fader, actually.  And I’m not worried, per se… I’m just…”  He cannot admit it, cannot finish the sentence, but Bull does it for him.  “Wondering if it was such a good idea to encourage ‘em?”

Dorian bites his lip, glances at Bull.  “Something like that.”

 

“Well, ka… Dorian, knowing you, you’re most worried about turning into a nervous wreck or fucking up in front of Fader.  But y’know, they might not even be coming…” Bull smiles, seems to leave _the members of Fader that mean the most to you, anyway_ unsaid.  Then he continues,  “That’s what Josie told us.  So maybe the best course of action is to worry about it when it happens.  Or to just run with it.  Y’ain’t gonna fuck it up that badly.  You would have done that in Lothering if you were gonna.”  Dorian can feel Bull’s voice rumbling right through his chest, where he sits astride Bull’s thigh with his head propped on his pectoral muscle. It really makes rather a nice pillow - warm, and soothing, and… but that’s not a thought for now, how attached he is growing to the smell of Bull.  He walks his fingers from one side of Bull’s chest to the other, and Bull pulls at his nipple ring.  “That tickles.”

 

“Mmm.”  Dorian smiles, then frowns.  “Bull…” he asks, then trails off.  He takes a deep breath and tries again.  “Bull, what were you trying to call me?  It starts with ka, and you’ve done it twice now.”

Bull snorts.  “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

“You keep saying, ka… Dorian.  Like you’ve changed your mind about calling me something.  I want to know what it is.”

“It's nothing, Dorian. Just drop it, okay?”

Dorian can hear the shred of annoyance in Bull’s voice, but he’s powerless to stop now.  He sits up suddenly, looking at Bull.  The two halves of his shirt swing together as he does, tickling across his flesh.  “Come on, Bull.  I’m not stupid.”

 

“I know you’re not stupid.  You might be deaf though.  I said, drop it.”

“No, I won’t.  You can tell me.”  Dorian laughs, a little incredulously.  

Bull is silent for a moment, his eye downcast.  Then he looks up at Dorian and says, “Kadan.  That’s what I was trying not to call you.”

 

 _Kadan_ _._  Dorian’s never heard that word before.  He opens his mouth, puzzled, then Bull pushes himself up from the pillows at his back, leaning forward.  “I was trying not to call you that, because you’re not ready.  Maybe not yet, maybe not ever.  Probably not ever, after our conversation on the bus.”  He blows out a breath and looks at Dorian.  “And you know, I don’t know if I’m ready for you not to be.  Can you drop it now?”

 

“I… suppose.”  Dorian frowns, suddenly suspicious, “This is just a casual thing, right?  You haven’t made me a romantic playlist and are busy thinking about honeymoon spots or anything?”

Bull laughs, “Nope.  None of that.”  He rubs a hand over his jaw, then takes a deep breath.  He looks up at Dorian, and smiles, though it seems forced.  “You got it.  We keep going just like we have been.”

 

But Dorian wonders.  Back in his room, after he’s showered again and changed his outfit three times, he suddenly gets itchy to know.  He knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s a bad idea, but Google Translate is _right there_ , and… there he is, typing it in, sounding it out as best he can.  His thumb hovers over the smartphone screen, and then it is done, the result returns.  It takes him a moment to register the words he’s reading.   _Where the heart lies .   Where the heart lies?  Oh, Maker.  No.  Really?_ and then he puts the phone down, shocked.  He is used to wanting more, always wanting more… but being wanted back?  No.   _This is not some stupid teenage love song!  Snap out of it!_ he tells himself, _This was supposed to be a little bit of fun, and nothing more!  You’re clearly in trouble here.  Pavus, you had better use that mighty brain to extricate yourself from it, you almighty asshole._ He huffs in irritation, then looks at the time, and realises he should have been downstairs to get on their way to meet Vivienne de Fer five minutes ago.

-|||-

 

It seems a long ride in the town car, but eventually they arrive at an extraordinarily exclusive looking little bistro, the facade gorgeous bronze and sage-green painted brick.  Dorian smirks as he steps out of the car and into the blistering heat.  Cullen pokes him in the ass to move him along and he turns.  “My, we are eager…”

“Eager to get this the hell over with.”  Cullen sighs and rolls his eyes.  He itches his arm under the frayed t-shirt sleeve, and Dorian looks at him pityingly. “Do you have any clothes that _don’t_ have some degree of wear about them?”

“Nope.” Cullen looks at Cassandra, who seems to have almost dressed down for the occasion - the sweatpants from Denerim are back, as is the old Rebel Warden t-shirt that she had worn at Dorian’s audition.  

 

“You know, Cassandra, I never took you for a provocateur…”

Bull laughs and looks at Cassandra as well.  Dorian studies him surreptitiously - light white cotton shirt, a lightweight, well tailored cream linen jacket and jeans.  Almost… acceptable.  Stop it, he warns himself again, and then looks back to Cassandra as she sighs, “This is what I feel comfortable in.  If Vivi takes issue with that, then that’s her problem.  Let’s get this over with.”

 

“Cullen, darling, you’re looking much less… grubby than usual.”  Vivi smirks up at Cullen and leans forward, social kissing each cheek.  She, of course, is immaculate.  Bright white dress in layers and layers of sheer fabric, the halter neck exposing the intricate tattoo of lilies and a huge white wyvern on her back.  Impeccable, Dorian thinks approvingly, and grins.  “Cassandra,” she purrs as she embraces the other woman.  Dorian watches, unable to stop himself smiling as he watches Vivi takes Cassandra’s shoulders, to at look at her, puzzled.  “Still so awkward?  My dear, there’s no need to be so very stiff about it.  We’ve known each other for a long time, you and I.”  A beat of silence, and Vivi’s expression changes slightly.  “My condolences.  I was sorry to hear about Temple.”

 

Cassandra takes a quick breath and mutters.  “Thank you.  I… was sorry to hear about your… about Bastien.”

Vivi smiles, “Thank you.  It means a great deal to me.”  She pats Cassandra’s shoulder once, and releases her.  

Cassandra moves past her, and Dorian hears Cullen mutter, “What happened at Temple?”  Cassandra only shakes her head, looking more tense than ever.  

“Bull!”  Vivi grins, “My old friend.  Still beating things with sticks?”

“Yes, ma’am.  Lots of things with lots of different sticks.”

“Charming.  You always were an unexpected treasure.  Those colours look positively darling on you.”  She narrows her eyes, “Terrible news about Gatt.  How is Tallis taking it?  And Salit?”

Bull clears his throat, “Fine, I guess.  I don’t hear much from those guys.”

“Oh dear, I am sorry.”  She puts a hand on his arm, tilting her head inquiringly.  “Is he going to trial?”

“Dunno, Viv.  Your guess is as good as mine.”

 

Vivi nods.  “My guesses are usually well informed, at least.”  She shakes her head, and smiles at Dorian.  “At last!  Dorian Pavus, in the flesh.  My dear, you seem rather peaky.  Are you sure you’re eating well?”

 

“ _Such_ a sweet enquiry.”  Dorian says, his tone laden with sarcasm, his smile just bordering on polite.   _I know how to play this game too_ _,_ he thinks, then continues,  “Obviously your reputation for viciousness is nothing but slander.  You, on the other hand, look much younger in person than your photographs would have us believe.  It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.  Even if it is here in Val Royeaux.”

Vivi laughs, “It could be worse.  We could be in Antiva.”  She studies him for a second, then says, “I see we’ll get on rather famously, Dorian.”  She holds out her hand, and he takes it, bending over and brushing his lips against her knuckles.  “I absolutely agree, Vivi.”

 

“Now, my dears, I know it is a rest day for you, but I was simply too, too excited about this opportunity to leave it to go begging.  My dear friend, Florienne des Chalons, I’m sure you’ve heard of her, sister to Gaspard, heir to the Celene department store fortune? Anyway, she has invited us all as special guests to her club after the gig on the first night we play.  I have heard also that Fader will be coming to our concert on the third, and of course they are welcome along as well.” Dorian only just manages to suppress a snicker.   _‘_ _We play’, ‘our concert’_ _,_ he thinks, _as if her band were equal on the bill!_  “It would be darling to speak to Hawke again, though I do hope that Isabela can behave herself this time.”  

  
Vivi sniffs disdainfully, then continues, “My dears, do come!  Of course, you’ll need to dress the part.  Flori’s club is trés exclusive, and I’d simply hate for you to make utter idiots of yourselves.”  She looks at Cullen and raises an eyebrow.  “Perhaps a spot of retail enhancements is in order?  I’m sure that Josephine can take care of you in that regard.”  Vivi looks out the window and smiles fondly, “Ah, Val Royeaux!  My spiritual home.  If you can’t purchase it here, it is unpurchasable.  And now my dears, I’m afraid I must dash.   So lovely to see you, and I do hope you’ll be able to come tomorrow night.  Of course, I will see you on the third, for soundcheck.  In the meantime, do have fun in this gorgeous city, truly the most beautiful in Thedas.”  And with that, she sweeps from the room, disbursing social kisses and handshakes as she glides by, just as if she were a queen come down amongst the common folk.  Dorian cannot help but enjoy the spectacle.  Personally, he finds Vivi delightful, even if she is rather terrible.  Probably because of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Bull asks Dorian to listen to as they're rolling into Val Royeaux is ['Keep Myself on Edge'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=12NRUrw-R-s) by the DZ Deathrays, from the 2014 album Black Rat.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra protests and relents; A standoff of sorts, and some flirting ensues; Fader's concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new tags for this chapter, but we get some new characters! They are: Taliesin Hawke (my male Mage Hawke OC) and Anders.

* * *

"And I'm only doing good when I'm having fun / and I don't have to please no-one / No, I don't give a damn 'bout my bad reputation."

 _Bad Reputation,_ Joan Jett and the Blackhearts ( _Bad Reputation_ , 1981)

* * *

 

“Come  _ out _ _!_ Maker, it’s just us, Cassandra.  Don’t be ridiculous…”

“It’s too tight,” she hisses through the changing room door.  “How the hell did you talk me into this..?”

“It’s not, it’ll be fine.  You need something to wear tomorrow,” Josephine reasons, rolling her eyes at Dorian.  He smiles at her and raises his eyebrows.  Cassandra sounds revolted when she asks, “Are you  _ sure _ they don’t have this in black?”

“That’s the closest they have.  Come on!”  Dorian says, and then the changing room door is pulled back.  Dorian folds his arms over his chest and tells her, “Now, if only we could do something about that look on your face.”

 

“It looks stupid.  I’m going to be cold,” Cassandra glowers.  “And did you see the price tag?  It’s repulsive!  I could feed an army for three months with the money that would buy this dress.”

Dorian glances at Josephine.  “I hate to say it Josie, but Cassandra is right about one thing.  It does look stupid.  Or at least,” he quantifies, “it’ll look stupid on her, because she doesn’t like it.  She’s going to act like she’s got a coat hanger down her back all night.  And if you think Vivi won’t notice, then you’d be wrong.”  Without looking at Cassandra, he tells Josephine, “I’ll take her in hand.  I know you have things to do.”

 

Cassandra harrumphs.  “I’m right here.”  She plucks at the low neckline of the dress and stares down at herself.  “This leaves  _ nothing _ to the imagination…”

“That’s the idea, Cassandra,” Josephine sighs.  She looks at Dorian and shrugs.  “Alright, if you want to martyr yourself, that’s fine.”

“You know, I saw you eyeing up that violet crêpe de dante number.  It would look stunning on you.”  Dorian smiles slyly, and Josephine raises an eyebrow.  “Well… maybe a quick try.  I’ll do that, and you can sort Cassandra out.  But Dorian,” Josephine has warning in her voice as she tells him, “Whatever you decide, it had better be good enough for Vivi de Fer.”

“Whatever  he  decides?  What about me?  I’ve got to wear the thing!”  Now Cassandra sounds downright outraged, and Josephine shakes her head and grins at Dorian.  “Have fun, you two!”

 

Of course, Dorian thinks as he listens to Cassandra rail against the dresses that Josephine had made her try, the next two nights are going to be rather interesting all round.  The sun beats down harshly, bathing the old city in light, and Dorian adjusts his sunglasses.  With Fader's concert tonight, and  Vivi's friend's soiree tomorrow, it should be a rather fascinating set of evenings.  He smiles to himself, then asks Cassandra, who has lapsed into a sulk, "I don't really understand what the problem is.  Don't you like playing dress up at all?"

“No.  It sucks.  I don’t know why I have to play along with this charade just to satisfy the social mores of some outrageous upper-class bint I've never met before…”

“We’re all dressing up.  I can’t imagine Cullen feels any better about it.  Or Bull for that matter…”

Cassandra snorts and looks at Dorian strangely.  “Bull?  He  _ loves _ dressing up.  I bet he has at least two outfits planned already.  Haven’t you ever seen… of course you haven’t.  Otherwise you’d never have said that.”  

 

“Bull?  Really?”  Dorian feels a little stunned, then remembers the perfect drape of the linen jacket and finds himself twirling his moustache.  As soon as he realises he’s doing it, he stops, and thinks he detects a faint smile from Cassandra.  They are walking down one of the narrow laneways off Le Bazar d’Été, skirting around Royans and tourists alike basking in the early summer sunshine at the al fresco café tables.  Boutiques and florists spill their wares out into the light, more an excuse for the shop staff to lounge in the sunshine as well.  “He never seems to shower though…”

“You know this stereotype about drummers?  It’s just that, a stereotype.  Sometimes we conform to them, and sometimes,” Cassandra looks sharply at Dorian, “we don’t.  On this occasion, Bull doesn’t.  You’ll see.  Trust me.  Now where is this stupid place?  My feet are getting sore.”

 

Dorian finds the vintage boutique he is looking for, a place he had found by chance the last time he was in Val Royeaux.  The pieces are all of excellent quality, and he’s sure that they will find something more to Cassandra’s liking here than in one of the designer stores in the main part of the bazaar.  The atmosphere is better too - friendlier, more geared to browsing and dreaming than the conspicuous consumption set.  He smiles at the assistant, who pushes her long bangs back from her eyes and smiles in return.  After wandering the store for a few minutes (and studiously ignoring a truly gorgeous cloth-of-silver scarf that would set off his eyes charmingly), he hears his name being hissed from behind a rack of long evening dresses.

 

He circles the stand and arches an eyebrow when he sees what Cassandra is holding.  “Be honest,” she says, and rolls her eyes, “It’s not me, is it.”

“Cassandra, it’s…”

“I know, I know,” she sighs and starts to put the dress back on the rack, “It’s too much, I was just in love with the fabric…”

“Cassandra, the fabric is…”

“It’s too rich, it’d never…”

“Cassandra!”  Dorian admonishes her, “Try. It. On.”

 

So she does.  Dorian has to bite the inside of his cheek when she slowly pulls the curtain aside to show him.  “Cassandra…” he begins and then swallows, a little overcome.

“Too much? Oh Maker, it’s too much, isn’t it.  Yes, I’ll just…” She is fleeing already, closing the curtain, but he puts a hand out and wrests the heavy drape from her.  “It’s beautiful,” he tells her, face serious, “It’s beautiful, and if we don’t buy it on Josephine’s credit card, I will be very disappointed and probably never speak to you again.”

Cassandra smiles and lowers her eyes.  She sighs, strokes the samite, and Dorian cannot help but admire the deep blue-black sheen to it.  “Well, we couldn’t have that,” Cassandra tells him, then she smirks and says, “I suppose you could throw in that grey scarf you keep pretending you’re not looking at, too.”

Dorian chuckles.  “Oh Cass, you’re all heart.  Come on, come on, let’s get this done and get back.”  He rubs his hands together and says, “Fader tonight!”

 

-|||-

 

“Just a minute!” Dorian calls.  Bull laughs from the other side of the door and says, “Decide, already!  You got from five, and I’m comin’ in! Five!”

Dorian panics.  There are still eight shirts on the bed, and he just can’t make up his mind.  “Four!” Bull yells, and Dorian takes two, the emerald green and the pale blue and gold one, and chucks them away, toward the open suitcase. “Three!” Bull says through the door, and Dorian hears Cullen ask, “Maker, is he  _ still  _ not ready?  They’ll have started by the time we get there!”  Cassandra snorts, and Dorian yells, “You are  really  not helping!”  Another reject joins the pile, long sleeved red with ebony buttons and topstitching, then another, ironic short sleeved white, which leaves four, then Bull says “Two!” and opens the door.

 

“Bull!  It’s traditional to wait until one,” Dorian grumbles, and Bull laughs.  “Looks like a t-shirt bomb exploded in here,” he mutters, then picks up the Fader t-shirt from the bed.  “You weren’t seriously considering this, were you?”

Cassandra frowns, peeking around Cullen, “We’re going to their concert though, that would be alright…”

Bull shakes his head.  “Nah, that’s weird.  You don’t wear a band t-shirt to a concert.  Unless you buy merch, and then you can wear it.  Even then, it’s… weird.”

“ _ You’re _ weird.” 

“Not as weird as you,”  Bull picks up the last shirt on the bed, cream with pale silver geometric patterns.  “Wear that.  Goes with your eyes.”

 

“Oooo!” Cullen squeals, “It goes with your  _ eyes _ _,_ Dori-baby!  Your pretty grey eyes!”

Bull laughs and grabs Cullen in a headlock, proceeding to noogie him.  “Ow, fuck, Bull! My hair, you arse!”

“Oh yeah, how long did it take you to do your hair today?” Bull laughs, as Cullen punches him in the thigh, though he is laughing too, “You butthead, let me up!”

“Didja put glue in it like you did in the old days? C’mon, I wanna know…”

“Maker, Bull, I’m not seventeen, I don’t use glue anymore.”  Bull releases Cullen from the headlock, and Cullen straightens, trying to glare at Bull and failing miserably.  

Dorian pulls the t-shirt over his head and asks, “Did you really use glue in your hair? That’s disgusting.”

Cullen shrugs and says, “It’s a punk thing.”  He tilts his head back and looks down his nose at Dorian, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Cassandra laughs.  “You are all absolutely nuts.  We better get going, otherwise we really will miss it.”

 

They flash the passes and the golems on security let them through.  Dorian feels the butterflies in his stomach, making it roil with tension, but at least he’s not wearing his worry on his face like Cullen is.  Maker, the man looks terrible.  Twice now, Dorian has heard Cassandra muttering, “If you want to go back…”  but twice Cullen has shaken his head in refusal.  

 

The backstage area is awash with people; an elven woman greets them seriously, and looks at the clipboard she carries.  She is wearing plaid, pleated trousers in a masculine style, with suspenders that strategically cover her mostly-bare breasts.  “Thrown from the Breach.”  Her thin lips hook up in a small smile, “I’ll take you to them.”

The elf sashays away, red hair bouncing as she threads through the crowds.  Dorian hears Bull chuckle, and he turns back to face him, grinning.  “Be cool, Dori-baby.  They’re just people,” Bull mutters, and then laughs.  “I didn’t say anything!” Dorian squawks in mock indignation, and then he hears his name.

 

“Dorian!  Bull!  Cassie, Culls, you made it!”  Merrill is leaping up and down, waving frantically.  She runs toward them, bare feet slapping the wooden boards, baggy red t-shirt flapping, then collides with Dorian so hard it knocks him back a step, into Bull. 

“Merrill!  You darling thing.  Are you excited to see us?”  Dorian laughs, and Bull chuckles, wrapping his arms around them both.  

“Of course!” Merrill squeals, “Bull, that’s so lovely, you do the best hugs!”

“Not better than mine though, surely, Kitten?  Hello, Thrown.  Nice to see you all again.”  Isabela sidles out of the open doorway Merrill has emerged from.  Dorian’s eyes widen, but it is Cullen who finds his voice first.  “Maker's Breath, Izzy.  You look…”

“Ravishing?” She smirks, and laughs when Cullen only nods.  Slowly, she twirls, the blue ribbons holding the scraps of almost-sheer white fabric together shining under the dim lights.  Her hair is piled high on her head, eyes lidded in bronze, heavy with shadow.  The dress is laced together in such a fashion that it looks as if it will come apart with a single pull on a strategically placed ribbon.  “So pretty, isn’t it?”  Merrill sighs happily and laughs, “Though it makes my fingers itchy…”

Isabela laughs, pulls the elf into a hug.  “Come on, let’s go find those boys of ours.  Hopefully they’re not in the middle of their preshow fuckfe…”

 

“Are you talking about me  _ again _ _,_ Izzy?  Maker’s sake, anyone would think you  fancy me or something.”  A tall, dark haired man emerges from an open door further down the corridor.  He flips the hem of the red-silk lined half-cape he is wearing back, exposing a heavily tattooed torso - runes and sigils, a massive griffon fighting a dragon, the name  _Bethany_ under his collarbone, and a brightly coloured image of Rainbow Brite over his left hip.  Dorian bites his lips together as Hawke smirks at him and then raises an eyebrow to Isabela.  “You’re out of luck, I’m afraid, though I’m sure I’ve told you that before.  It’s not you, darling, it’s your vagina.”  

 

Isabela groans as if she’s heard that joke a hundred times before, and punches Hawke hard on the arm.  “Ow, Izzy, I thought we were friends!”  Hawke rubs the spot on his arm and pouts at her. Then he looks at Dorian and laughs, extending a hand.  “Taliesin Hawke, though the introduction is rather redundant at this point, I suppose.  Hello, Cassie-baby, you’re looking… intimidating.  And Bull!  Boy, you eat your greens and work out, don’t you? Like a wall of muscle.”  He laughs again, and then the smile falls from his face for a moment.  “But…”  he squints, frowning, and then smiles again, incredulously.  “Is that Cullen  _ Yay! Templar Oppression!  _ Rutherford?  Wow.”  

“Hawke, don’t be a dick…” Isabela mutters.  Hawke, however, doesn’t even bother to look at her as he says fake-jovially, “Didn’t think you’d have the cojones to come to the show,” and here he laughs, though his eyes blaze angrily, “After you nearly got my husband killed in Kirkwall.”  

 

All of a sudden, the air feels thick with tension.  Hawke stares past Dorian, his nostrils flaring.  Isabela puts her hand on Hawke’s arm, and Merrill chirps, “Oh, Tal, c’mon, that was a long time ago…”  

Hawke shakes his head.  “Not to me, Merry.  Not to me, it wasn’t.”  He speaks through gritted teeth, and he is certainly not smiling any more.  Dorian sees his fists are clenching and unclenching, the muscles in his forearms prominent then receding.   This is going so badly…  he thinks desperately.  He can almost smell the magic coming off Hawke, deep, raw, unbridled.  He remembers that Hawke never had the benefit of a Circle education, Southern or otherwise, thinks that’s why the magic he senses feels so strange - a little bit spirit, a lot of entropy and elemental, even a tiny hint of blood magic.  The silence is tense, horrible, then Cullen steps forward.  Dorian stiffens, though when he sneaks a look at Cullen’s face, it is calm.  

 

“Hawke,” Cullen starts in a low voice, “I’m so sorry.” 

There is a pregnant pause, and Cullen takes a deep breath.  “I haven’t any right to ask you to forgive me for my actions.  But I did want to come to tell you that I apologise for them, and that I regret them.  I just…”

“We know.”  A tall man, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his brow has approached during the standoff.  He puts a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, and Hawke seems to relax a little into the touch, though he keeps his gaze fixed on Cullen.  “We know.  The wheels of justice spin slowly, but they grind all oppressors beneath them in the end.”

“I suppose they do at that.”  Cullen clears his throat awkwardly, and says, “I can go.  I don’t want to cause any…”

Anders pushes off the hood and frowns slightly.  “No.  Stay.  We’re not the same people we were back then.”  He pauses, smiling slightly, and pokes Hawke hard in the neck.  “There is a fucking big qunari standing there, and you’re worried about Cullen?  Uh, priorities?  Did you even say hello to Cass, you beast?”

 

Bull and Cassandra both laugh, and the tension evaporates slightly at the sound of it.  “Who pokes someone in the neck?  Anders, that  really  hurt…” Hawke whines, pulling his hand back and looking at it carefully.  “Is it bleeding?”

“Maker, you’re such a baby, Tal…”

“C’mon, Thrown!” Merrill trills, grinning with relief.  “This way!”

 

She leads them all down the corridor and into a green room, liberally supplied.  Dorian grins as he walks into the space.  It must be strange, he thinks, for Fader to be back together after such a long time, and he cannot help but notice how they have split their dressing rooms by the two couples, with this common space between them.  “We heard, obviously, about the Denerim gig,” Hawke is saying to them, “It seems that Thrown from the Breach have a few new fans…”

“We played Hawke the vids from the first night’s show,” Merrill grins, “He wants to record you guys!”

Hawke glares at Merrill.  “Meh-rreeee,” he says, his voice laden with mock irritation, “I was getting to that, by Andraste’s Sacred Panty-Drawer.”

“Aw, sorry, Tal…”  Merrill covers her mouth with both hands and Isabela frowns at Hawke’s back and throws a grape at his head.  Hawke sighs and looks up at the ceiling, spreading his hands wide, then looks at Dorian, making a sad face.  

 

“You see what I have to put up with, Dorian?  Nothing but constant abuse and neglect, pokes in the neck and grapes to the head.”  His nostrils flare and his mouth wobbles, then he laughs.  Dorian cannot help it, he laughs along with Hawke.  Ugh, he’s fawning, he knows he is, but Hawke is so… charming, he seems completely without guile.  Hawke looks at him carefully for a moment, a faint smile playing about his lips.  His hair is mostly still dark, Dorian sees, but there are crows feet at the corners of his eyes and a shallow, permanent frown line in between his eyebrows.  He is still good looking though, and Dorian smiles, remembering staring at the huge poster of Fader that had hung in his room for years.  In it, younger versions of all four members of the band had posed archly; Anders’ smiling slyly at the camera, Hawke standing slightly behind him, his grin barely masked by Anders’ shoulder, his arms around his waist.  Isabela, laughing, her mouth open in delight, Merrill looking at her in open wonder.  Hawke studies Dorian for a moment, then grins and shakes his head.  “Maker save me,” he says quietly, and narrows his eyes, “You are just… spectacular.”

 

There is a moment where the rest of the room seems to disappear slightly for Dorian.  Hawke.  Taliesin Hawke.  From Fader.   _ Stop it! _ Dorian tells himself,  _ You are quite as good as he is, and there’s absolutely no reason to be acting like a stupid kid about it.   The ‘ it’ being that he is flirting with you, rather obviously _ _._  Still, he cannot help the smile that rises to his lips, and almost unconsciously, he runs his tongue lightly over his bottom lip and bites it.  Then a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and Bull says, “He is, right?  Something else, this kid.”

 

“Something else, indeed.”  Hawke smiles, tilts his head, and looks at Bull.  “Helllloooo,” he drawls, narrowing his eyes, “You aren’t going to challenge me to a fight, are you?”

Bull laughs, and squeezes Dorian’s shoulder slightly.  Dorian almost feels like he wants to shake it off; not here, not now.  He settles instead for shifting uncomfortably, feeling almost as if Bull is making some kind of claiming statement, telling Hawke in no uncertain terms to back off.   “No,” Bull tells Hawke, “I’m not gonna fight you.  Why?”

“No reason.”  Hawke sighs, his eyes lingering on the hand on Dorian’s shoulder then flicking back to Bull’s face.  “Had a bit of an experience once, fighting a qunari.  Let’s just say I did a lot of running.”

Bull laughs again, and whacks Hawke on the shoulder.  “Oh, yeah!  I heard about that!  Ari, right, from Dreadnought?  Aw, he’s a bit of a bastard.  Heard they replaced him.”

 

“It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”  Hawke slams his fist into an open hand and smirks as the fist bursts into flames.  He shakes the fiery hand, looking chagrinned, and Merrill turns around from her conversation with Cassandra to ask, “Oh, Tal. I thought you said you had that sorted?”

“No, mum.  I don’t.  Spontaneous combustion keeps things interesting.  Oh!  Cassandra!”  Hawke turns and steps closer to Dorian, “What do you think? Would Inquisition let you off the leash for a while?  You could come up north, record album number… four?  At the Mansion.”

 

Dorian looks at Cassandra, who folds her arms and smiles.  “I’m not sure. We’d have to talk to management.”

“Pfft,” Hawke flaps a hand, “ _ Management _ _._  It’s all so tedious.  Run away! Join Apostasy!”

Anders smirks from behind Hawke, where he has been talking to Cullen and Isabela.  Dorian sees him creep up behind Hawke as he is expounding the virtues of the Mansion, one of the primary studios that Apostasy/Freedom Music use.  Dorian bites his lips together, trying not to smile.  Bull snickers, then Anders suddenly leaps forward and grabs Hawke’s shoulders, and the shorter man lets out a yip of fright, then laughs.  Anders grins and shows Hawke his index finger.  “Hawke, my love, my sweet,” he jabs the finger at Hawke and tells him, “If I hear you talking shop at all tonight, you’ll feel the wrath of the finger.”

 

“Not the finger!”  Hawke clutches his neck, and then looks at Anders, puzzled. “Is this bad wrath, like you’ll poke your finger into my neck, or good wrath like when you put your finger…”

“Bad wrath.  Definitely bad.”  Anders grins, then his attention is arrested by the elf, the same one that had let them in earlier.  She waves at him from the door and holds out all ten fingers.  Anders nods, his face going serious.  “Okay, Shianni!  Thank you!” he calls, then looks at Hawke.  He kisses the dark stubble, and mutters, “Time to go.”

 

-|||-

 

When the house lights go down, the crowd goes silent for a moment, like they are about to witness something perfect, holy.  Dorian feels it, deep inside his chest, this moment; they all feel it together.  It is only a fraction of a second, and then the crowd noise erupts, a noise of such pure emotion that Dorian laughs.  He sees Bull watching him from the corner of his eye, but cannot, physically cannot, tear his eyes from Fader.  They stand bunched together in a little group; Merrill jiggling excitedly, her drumsticks clutched in her hands, Anders perfectly still, looking pale and serious, Izzy shifting from foot to foot in a swaying motion.  Hawke has his arms around them all.  Finally, he laughs, releasing them.  Merrill is the first to go, bounding out onto the stage.  Izzy watches her, smiling, and then picks up her bass, a scarred thing, painted gold and white; it looks like an Ibanez, but Dorian doesn’t see enough to guess more. She walks out onto the stage, her smirk changing as the crowd roars for her - something like amazement crosses her features.  

 

Only Hawke and Anders remain.  Hawke takes both of Anders’ hands in his own, brings them to his lips.  Dorian cannot see his face, but he must say something, because Anders smiles, chuckles a little and shakes his head.  Hawke drops his hands and turns, striding quickly out onto the stage, where his guitar waits on its stand.  Another roar greets him.  Finally, Anders is alone.  He looks down, seems to war internally for a moment, and then looks up, right into Dorian’s face.  Dorian tries to smile encouragingly at him, and Anders smiles back.  Then he takes a deep breath and runs out onto the stage.

 

The crowd have clearly saved their best for him.  The bass starts up, a slow, syncopated rhythm, just Isabela.  Dorian catches a glimpse of her in her white dress, and smiles when he sees her nod to Merrill.  Merrill, after a four count, comes in, matching the hypnotic rhythm that she’s setting, but when Hawke joins them, a few beats later, Anders comes in too, a spiralling shout that mingles with the squeal and screech of Hawke’s guitar.  “Maker, that’s effective,” Cassandra mutters, but Dorian is lost.  He’s seventeen again, agape at the shine of Anders’ sweat, the way Hawke would cross the stage to him and, laughing, kiss his shoulder.  He’s nineteen, and this song plays in the background as Livius pushes him back against the door, telling him he’ll make him come so good he won’t be able to keep quiet.  He’s twenty one, drunk, laughing, singing along.  Fader has been the soundtrack of his life, and to be here… he feels his sinuses pinch as the tears draw close, remembering Felix; Felix under the lights of the train station, telling him his feathers looked ridiculous, but they wouldn’t let them in anyway.   _ They did though, Felix.  Do you remember it?  You were gone for Isabela after that, Gereon even bought you a bass guitar.  Silly boy.  I love you, my brother.  I wish you were here with me now.   _

 

At some stage, Bull has put his arm around Dorian’s shoulders.  Cassandra sidles up beside Dorian, puts one arm tentatively around his waist and, when he accepts it, puts her head on his shoulder.  A little while later, Dorian feels a tickling at his waist, as Cullen’s arms slide around Cassandra.  Dorian smiles slightly when he sees Cullen rub the line of his jaw over the back of Cassandra’s head, just nuzzling behind her ear.  He sighs, weirdly contented, and Anders sings, _..._ _ and if you wonder, what I would do, I would do anything, if I could.  You know I would - I would, I would for you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things...
> 
>  **...in reference to the Fader songs:**  
>  The first track Fader play at their concert, as it sounds in my head, is the song [Mountain Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1kAIMlISHhU). The second song, the one referenced by the lyrics at the end there, is the song [I Would For You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXzxnvrqmO4). Both songs are from the album _Nothing's Shocking_ (1988), which as you have probably guessed, is one of my favourite albums of all time. 
> 
> **...in reference to posting:**  
>  *sigh* So it would seem that all the holiday junk that happens at this time of year means that I don't have an awful lot of time to be sitting in front of a computer at the moment. That's going to continue into the foreseeable future too. All of that shameless excuse making means *hides under desk* that I'm putting the posting of Wastelands on hiatus from chapter 20. So I'll post 19 and 20 on Sunday, and then I'll be taking a break for a wee while, and coming back in the new year. I'm sorry, dear readers, this is just a bit of necessity to get through - there is no way that I'd get this far through and not finish!!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Fader's gig. Meeting SPIREGHOST. Dancing until dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new tags for this one - but of course some of the old ones still apply (and you can pretty much guaruntee that whenever you see Taliesin Hawke's name in a chapter, that you can invoke the tag 'shameless flirting')  
> But Cole makes an appearance! Hurrah!

* * *

"We're nightclubbing, we walk like a ghost / We learn dances, brand new dances / Like the Nuclear Bomb / When we're / nightclubbing, bright white clubbing /

Oh, isn't it wild?"

 _Nightclubbing_ , Iggy Pop ( _The Idiot_ , 1977)

* * *

 

Anders laughs and Hawke kisses him.  “I really mean it, you asshole.  You were superb.”  

“Yes, well.  Thank you, I suppose…”

“You sound like you don’t believe me!”  Hawke puts a hand over his his heart, and looks at Dorian, seemingly affronted.  “He sounds like he doesn’t believe a word I say, doesn’t he, Dorian?”  He leans in a little closer and whispers, “C’mon, kid, back me up…”

Dorian laughs.  He feels lightheaded, on the brink of jittering into spontaneous combustion with the sheer joy of the evening.  He hears Bull laughing from the other side of the room and peeks through the crowded space - Bull is listening intently to something that Varric is telling him.  The dwarf is talking with his hands, grinning up at Bull, who smiles and shrugs.  

 

Dorian turns his gaze back, grins at Hawke and tells him archly, “Yes, but I’m a little biased, Tal.” _Tal,_ he thinks, _Maker, I’m becoming friends with Taliesin Hawke and Anders.   Somebody pinch me_ _._  “Uh, fan?” he gestures at himself and smirks, “So I’m hardly going to tell Anders he was a bit flat, am I?  Or that you were half a beat behind Isabela and Merrill during most of the last half of the set?”

 

Hawke lowers his chin and stares at Dorian.  Anders grins, covers his mouth with his hand, looking at Hawke, who continues to stare at Dorian gravely.  Finally, Anders can hold it no longer and laughter bursts from between his fingers.  He clutches Dorian’s shoulder and laughs at Hawke, who raises an eyebrow at him.  “Oh, Tal, your face!  You look like someone just punched a puppy in front of you!”

Hawke’s mouth twitches as if he is trying to hold back his own laughter, then he raises his chin and sniffs.  “That was cold, Dorian.  I was going to ask you to come with us to meet Cole, but…”  He sighs, “No, I’m still going to do that.  You are cool.  And quite good looking.  And you have a cold-hearted streak which I find mightily appealing.  This tall drink of water can tell you more about it.  I have to…” and here he covers his eyes with his hands and sobs theatrically, “Have to go put my shredded ego back together!  Goodbye!”  And he turns, flounces two steps and runs straight into Cassandra, who laughs and thwacks him on the back of the head.  “Did you tell this idiot about Vivi’s invitation yet?”

 

Hawke holds the back of his head and grimaces.  “No, he did not tell me.  Who’s Vivi?”

Cassandra laughs and gestures to Dorian, who proceeds, “Vivi de Fer.  From Knives…”

“Where You Least Expect Them.  Yeah, I know her!  She really puts the anti- in social climber, doesn’t she?”  Hawke narrows his eyes and asks, “What’s she inviting proles like us to?”

 

Dorian chuckles, feels Anders’ eyes upon him.  “Her friend, some socialite, has invited us - you as well - to an exclusive club tomorrow night.  It sounds interesting…”

“If you like dress up parties,” Cassandra grumps.  “I looked up this Chalons woman.  Her club is so fancy that it doesn’t even have a name.” She rolls her eyes, “But it does sound interesting.  Lots of really eclectic live performance - music, dance, all sorts of things.”

“Mime?” Hawke grins and Cassandra raises an eyebrow.  She shakes her head and tells Hawke, “I spent all fucking day dress shopping for this thing.  Please come and cause havoc.”

 

Hawke laughs delightedly.  “And with an invitation like that, how could I refuse?  How swanky are we talking?  Can I go shopping tomorrow?”

Anders groans.  “It sounds fucking dreadful.  And if you’re only going to cause carnage, perhaps I should stay home…”

“Oh, no, no, please,” Hawke looks stricken, his brows meeting in concern.  “If you’re not going, I’m not going.”

Anders only frowns for a moment, and then huffs out an exaggerated breath.  “We can talk later about it, alright?  

Hawke looks as if he’s about to argue, but then nods slowly.  “Alright. I’m going to go quietly sulk over here, where the alcohol is.  That’s where I’ll be if anyone wants me for a witty retort, or y’know.  I can flex my muscles and stuff.”  He sighs, throws his hands up dramatically and yells, “I have feeeelings, you know!  And I feel like I wanna go shopping tomorrow and wear pretty things!”  

“Oh, Hawke,” Cassandra mutters, looking at Dorian as she claps Hawke on the back, “You are utterly insufferable.”

“Oh Cass, I never knew you cared,” he laughs, and hugs her.

 

Anders sighs and shakes his head.  He leans a little closer to Dorian to say, “Before you ask, yes, he is always like that, and no, he hasn’t calmed down with age.  You’d think that, but…”  He smiles lopsidedly at Dorian, then looks worried.  “Was I really flat?”

“No, of course not,” A little bit, Dorian thinks, but if one cannot pander to one’s heroes’ egos, then there isn’t much hope for the world.  “Who or what is Cole?”

 

“Have you ever heard of Sanctum, or the Spirit Collective?”  When Dorian shakes his head, Anders tells him, “Sanctum is a festival.  It was set up to raise money for the refugees of the Mage-Templar War.  Cole was instrumental in organising it - I helped a little bit, but not very much.  It was originally just a little EDM festival, but it’s grown quite a bit since those early days.” Anders laughs a little and rolls his eyes, “Ever since Hawke found out that’s what we were doing, he insisted on Apostasy being involved, so that’s helped us grow the festival out.  Cole’s playing tonight, in an extremely secret gig.  The sort of gig you get arrested for attending.  Which you can imagine appeals to Tal no end.”

 

Dorian nods, still confused. “A few questions,” he says, “So Cole is… a DJ?”

“Yes.  He goes by the name SPIREGHOST.  It’s all in capital letters, I’m not sure why.  But he works mostly in digital hardcore and some happy hardcore stuff.”

“I have no idea what that is…”

Anders smiles and nods, “Neither did I until a few years ago.  I can’t really explain it.  To be honest, I rather hate going to his gigs.  It makes me feel fucking ancient.  But the music is pretty good.”

 

Dorian shrugs.  Electronica isn’t something he’s had much to do with - it never seemed that interesting, certainly not the performative aspects anyway.  Still, new experiences are always welcome, and he has to admit that Anders’ comment about it being the sort of gig you get arrested for attending is intriguing.  “What did you mean about…”  Then something Cassandra had told him about EDM being banned in Orlais comes back to him and he frowns, thinking.

 

Anders seems to guess his question, and smiles.  “Orlais passed an act of law in 9:39 Dragon against performing any music with a bpm - that’s beats per minute - a bpm higher than 155.  Performing in this case means in front of a group of ten or more.  So, the law covers pretty much every form of EDM.  It covers a lot of other music too - but I’ve never heard of any thrash group being prosecuted under the Automated Rhythms act.”  He shakes his head and frowns.  “It was meant to be to curtail the illegal drug trade within the scene.  All it’s really done is make everyone who wants to enjoy that sort of music a criminal.”  

 

After a moments silence, where Anders looks away, seeming to Dorian as if he is trying to curb his annoyance, he continues.  "So of course, instead of fading away, the entire scene went underground.  Cole’s based in Llomerryn, because that’s where you go when nowhere else will have you, but I think that’s just his physical address.  He’s been all over the last few years - residencies in big clubs, really pulling them in.  But he’s not a party guy - he really wants to help people, and Spirit is part of that.”  Anders looks around the room and leans a little closer to Dorian.  “So, what do you say?  Do you want to come?”

 

In the end, there are a few of them that pile into a nondescript rented vehicle.  Cassandra had arched an eyebrow and nodded slowly, smiling when Hawke suggests it and he laughs, seemingly in shock.  “Really?  You know it’s illegal, right?”

 

“Yes, Hawke.  I know.” Cassandra huffs, and Isabela narrows her eyes and folds her arms over her chest. “It’s finally come.  The end of the world as we know it.  Pentaghast gets her dance on.”  She grins at Hawke and stage whispers to him, “Take a video, Tal!”

He gives her a thumbs up and giggles, then his face falls, “Are you not coming then?”

“No,” Isabela tells him, and encircles Merrill with her arm.  “We have important things to do tomorrow morning, don’t we, Kitty-Cat?”

Merrill nods, grinning hugely, and puts both hands over her mouth.  “Secret things!”she says, sounding muffled but very happy.  Anders frowns at Isabela, and it seems to Dorian that she deliberately avoids looking at him.  A moment of silence, then Cullen looks at Cassandra quizzically.  “Weren’t you talking about going somewhere with Varric.  Where is he, by the way?  And I never thought you were interested in dance music.”  

 

Cassandra rolls her eyes and snorts, though she colours a little, and Dorian notes she does not mention Varric with her answer.  “I was going to raves before any of you even knew what they were.”  

“Sounds like there’s a story behind that…” Bull says.  He narrows his eyes and smirks as Cassandra turns to him, a look of wary humour on her face.  

“There is, but it’s not one that you’ll hear today.  Are you coming?”  

Bull shrugs, then nods.  “Sure.  I’ll do anything once.  I kind of want to see what all the fuss is about.”

 

-|||-

 

It seems much darker, out there in the fields.  The night is cloudless, the stars bright white in the blackness.  Dorian can’t even see where they’re going yet, but he can hear it; deep bass, somewhere up ahead of them.  As they get closer, he sees people under the trees; people laughing, painted with day-glo colours, smoking, talking.  He feels like a tourist.  Someone yells a cheery hello to Hawke and he laughs when an elf runs up and hugs him.  

 

When the elf bounces away, he turns to the rest of them and says, “Well, that was… friendly.  I have no idea who that was.”  He looks bemused, but pleasantly so.  For a gig which is meant to be secret, there are a lot of people, more than the hundred or so Dorian was expecting.  The overgrown wooded area is about an hour and a half’s drive out of Val Royeaux.  Up ahead, an abandoned-looking silo stands - it is from this that the music emanates.  Dorian looks to his left, and sees Cassandra, her skin pale in the moonlight.  She has an odd look on her face; almost like she is ascending into battle.  He’s seen that look on her face before, just before she completes a particularly technical solo, and he cannot help but smile.  Bull laughs, and almost-shouts, “Now this is music even I can dance to…”

“What do you mean?” Anders asks, “You look like you’d be… light on your feet?”

Bull chuckles and points toward the silo.  “All those kids in there.  It’s just waving your arms about and jumping.  Easy.”

Hawke turns and shoots him a grin, “Yeah, old man.  Let’s see how easy it is in a couple of hours.”

 

They keep walking and eventually come to the source of the noise.  Dorian can feel the beat in his chest, it is so heavy, entrancing, almost like it is messing with his body on an extraordinarily fundamental level.  And then, Maker, and then this incredible rhythm pounds out over the top of the initial beat and he sees the dancing crowd amp up, to surge, but he cannot hear them.  He feels a punch on his arm, and turns to see Cassandra grinning.  “Dance!” she says, or at least that’s what it looks like she’s saying, and then she waves her hand at the group and pushes forward into the crush.  Dorian looks at Bull, who shrugs and chuckles.  He points to his feet, and his mouth moves as if he’s saying something, but there’s no way Dorian can hear it.  Bull shakes his head a little, and smiles, looking out over the heads of the crowd, nodding his head to the rhythm.

 

“Dorian!” Hawke yells, right in his ear, and points over the top of the crowd.  Dorian squints through the haze of sweat and strobe and sees a very young looking man, his face awash with blue light from one of the computer screens he is staring at.  He is wearing the most alarming hat.  Fluffy.  Dirty pink.  With rabbit ears.   _Holy Sword of Mercy_ _,_ is all he has time to think before Hawke is pushing him forward, into the writhing mass of dancers.  

 

There is no choice.  It’s either dance or be damned.  The beat is overwhelming, driving them forward, Hawke at his back.  He laughs, shoving through the dancers, thick in the crush, the sweat pouring off them.  Cassandra is gone, lost somewhere in the crowd.  Hawke laughs in his ear, and he feels the other mage wrap his arms around his chest, and he smirks.  He thinks he hears Anders’ voice, but the beat, Maker, the beat is so loud it really does drive every other thought right out of his head.  They approach the small, makeshift booth that Cole, SPIREGHOST, is in.  He looks up, puzzled and then tilts his head and waves, sweetly, shyly, and beckons them forward.

 

Cole holds up two fingers, then turns back to the laptops in front of him.  Whether that is an indication of how long they will have to wait or not, Dorian can only guess, but after a while it doesn’t matter.  He watches the crowd, Hawke’s hand trailing idly over his shoulder.  They have given themselves up to it, to the dance; mostly humans, but with a large portion of elves also present.  If there are any dwarves or qunari, Dorian doesn’t see them.  Another young man enters the booth, looking suspiciously at the three of them, and then he taps Cole on the shoulder.  Cole looks at him, and his face breaks into a huge grin - he hugs the newcomer.  He seems only slightly older than Cole - not more than twenty two or three, that’s for sure, with blonde hair and ears that are slightly tipped.  The young man laughs and hugs back.  They break and the other man looks from one laptop to another, leans toward Cole to ask something.  Their heads bob in unison for a moment, and from the corner of his eye, Dorian sees Anders smother a smile.  

 

Then Cole nods, and unhooks a cable from one of his laptops, hands it to the other man, who plugs it quickly into his.  There follows an animated discussion, both of the DJ’s talking with their hands and faces rather than with words.  Eventually though, Cole turns and smiles shyly at the group of older men, and beckons to them to follow him.

 

He leads them out of the silo, out under the stars and trees again.  Dorian hears a long whoop like an exhalation from the crowd, and the beat swarms out, through the night, beginning to distort a little in the open air.  The crowd have not missed a moment with the change of DJ’s; as the sky begins to show the first hints of dawn over the horizon, Dorian sees no sign that the night will end any time soon.  They walk out of the range of the music quite a way before Cole begins to speak.  “You didn’t dance this time,” Cole looks at Anders from beneath the rim of his hat, his expression serious.  “It’s nice when you get light enough to dance.  That doesn’t happen often.”

 

“No,” Anders slings an arm over the narrow shoulders.  Dorian frowns a little, thinks it must be a trick of the low light - Anders’ eyes almost seem to glow for a second, when his arm touches Cole’s skin.  “I didn’t dance this time.  But I will.  Cole, this is Dorian.  He’s a friend of ours.”

 

“You didn’t dance either.”  Cole pulls at the ear flaps on his hat, wrenching the hat down further over his forehead.  He peers over Anders’ arm, looking towards Dorian with an expression of consternation on his face.  “You have a different kind of heavy; stale, poked and prodded at, like a hole in your tooth.  It’s old.  It holds the shape underneath down, it covers him up, the other.  You’ve learnt to think you’re happy that way...”  The boy frowns, then continues, “but it weighs you down.  You can’t dance when you’re down.”

 

“I… suppose not.”  It had been on the tip of Dorian’s tongue to say nice to meet you, but Cole’s response is so unnerving that even sarcasm deserts him for a second.  He can feel his eyes go round as well, wondering if there is any deeper meaning in Cole’s words.  Hawke elbows him and he turns.  The taller mage smiles at Dorian, then looks across at Cole.  “Cole, my brother - you’re freaky as fuck.”

 

“How freaky is fuck?”  Cole asks, all innocence, and Hawke laughs.  “Pretty fuckin’ freaky.  How’s Feyn doing these days?”

“Still itchy, under his skin.  The music helps the push and slide in his mind, helps him understand that they don’t want it all.  It helps.  It always does.”  Cole sighs, and smiles, sidles a little closer to Anders.  “Are you here to say yes?”

“Yup.  Can you come to us, or should we come to you?”

“I’ll come to you.  If it’s at the Mansion, we can do it there.  I like it there.  It feels like a home, a place that Hawke can keep safe for you.  He likes it there, and the liking gets into the walls.  Makes it better, safer, for the music.  And for you.”

Hawke grimaces.  “Maker.  If you wreck my solos, I’ll be really annoyed, Cole.”

 

Anders shoots him a glare and shakes his head.  Hawke pouts and shrugs, then drops back a pace.  Dorian drops back with him - it’s clear that Anders and Cole have more to discuss, and he already feels like an outsider enough.  He looks at Hawke, just briefly and asks, “If you don’t mind me asking, what was that all about?”

 

“Ah, sorry!  That was really rude, wasn’t it?” Hawke speaks loudly, almost as if he is hoping Anders will overhear.  When this gets no reaction, he snorts and shakes his head.  “Cole’s going to do a remix on some of the new Fader tracks.  We’re going to make a bit of a thing of it, put it out for Sanctum as a special edition.”  He puts his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and scrunches his face up for a second.  “Those two,” he mutters, “They always wanna do stuff face to face.  It’s like… like they knew each other before they’d ever met.”  He makes a frustrated noise and glances at Dorian, who nods, even though he has no idea what’s going on.  “Yeah, like you know what I’m talking about.”  Hawke snorts and rolls his eyes.  They continue walking behind Anders and Cole for a while longer.   Then Dorian looks at Hawke to try and get him on a different conversational path when Hawke says, “Hey, what’s the deal with you and Bull?  Are you guys a thing?”

 

Dorian raises an eyebrow.  “Uh, no.”  

Hawke grins.  “Uh huh.  So… that means you guys fuck, but you’re not like… _together,_ together?”

“Something like that, I suppose,” Dorian frowns, and folds his arms.  Hawke seems to sense his disquiet and grimaces.  “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to get up in your business.”  He chuckles, “Just curious, is all.”

 

“Curious.  Let me guess,” Dorian cannot help himself, and rolls his eyes, smiling wryly, “Curious about…”

“His cock.  Yeah.  I mean, Maker, you’re a braver man than I am, that’s for sure.  Ever since that Ari guy from Dreadnought nearly smashed my face in, I’ve had a bit of a…” He shudders and raises an eyebrow.  “Love-hate relationship with qunari.  Like, I love to run away quickly when I see them, and they hate the sight of me.”  Hawke laughs and shoots a quick look at Dorian, then grins and hunches his shoulders in a shrug.  “So?  What’s it like?”

 

Dorian thinks for a moment.  “Proportional,” he smirks, and Hawke groans.  “Well?  What did you expect me to say?”

But Hawke only laughs.  He continues to look at Dorian, then tilts his head. The cold night air seems to solidify around Dorian as he realises what that look is - appraisal, the beginnings of desire.   _Here I am_ _,_ he thinks, and he cannot help the small smile that rises to his lips, _Being flirted at by one of the men who got me into rock and roll in the first place.  What a peculiar and fascinating turn of events._  He smiles at Hawke, who’s grin broadens, and then he laughs, almost as if he is embarrassed.  

“Hey!” comes the shout from ahead of them, and Hawke looks away from Dorian toward the sound of Anders’ voice.  “Hey, you two.  Time to head back.  We’re done here.”

 

So they turn, and walk slowly back toward the silo.  Dorian keeps pace with Hawke, until he feels a touch on his arm and turns quickly.  

“Sorry,” Cole says, pulling one of the ears of his rabbit hat again.  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, Cole, it’s fine.  You didn’t…”

But Cole just smiles and asks, “Did you see your friend?  The lone dancer?  She dances for everything, feels him under the music, around it, inside her.  It doesn’t matter if the music’s through a machine or a guitar.  She knows what she wants now, knows it would make her happy, knows that’s all he would want. Will you help her?  She wouldn’t let me.”  He nods as if Dorian has answered, then says, “You should take her advice.  Tell him.”

 

“You… you’re talking about Cassandra?  But how did you know…” Dorian raises his eyebrow, thinking _Hawke was right, this guy is freaky as fuck.  And how could I help Cassandra?  I can barely help myself_ _._  He doesn’t know exactly how to take Cole, but he is fascinating, that’s for certain.  Cole smiles. “You should try.  He wants you to try.  Different is good, though sometimes hiding is safer.  If I can help you, will you let me?”

 

“I… suppose…”  Dorian feels at sea here, and is finding it difficult to hear Cole as they approach the silo.  That, of course, is not helped by the fact that he finds Cole’s words inscrutable, is unsure if there might be something hidden deeper within his words, or if it is just illusion.  

 

Finally, they reach the silo again.  Cole smiles at Dorian, waves a little.  He looks worriedly at Hawke, shyly stretches out his arms, and Hawke looks reluctantly at him for a moment before pulling him into a short hug and ruffling in between the rabbit ears.  There is no hesitation with Anders, however.  Cole just goes to him, nestling like a bird into the taller man’s arms.  His eyes are closed, Dorian sees, an expression of contentment on his face.  Anders looks down at the top of his head, smiling sadly, and kisses him gently.  Cole looks up then, smiling, and Anders chuckles.  Then they release each other and Cole waves again, then trots back in the direction of the booth, the ears on his hat flapping.  From the corner of his eye, Dorian sees Hawke lower his head, his expression stony, and then raise it to grin at Anders.  

“C’mon,” he shouts, lunging forward to take Anders’ hand, and then reaching for Dorian’s as well.  Dorian laughs, shakes his head and then puts his hand into Hawke's.  “Let’s dance!”

 

-|||-

 

The new day begins.  Dorian watches as the sun crests over the horizon through the car window, as the light from it casts the sky in tones of lush orange and pink.  They had danced, become separated, found each other again.  Dorian sighs as he remembers the look on Cassandra’s face; she had been dancing with her eyes closed when he first saw her, arms raised, lost to it.  When he had approached her, yelled in her ear that they were leaving, she looked almost for a moment like she would tell them to go on ahead, that she would find her own way back.  But then she had nodded, and followed him back to where Bull was standing.  He had grinned, stifled a yawn and stood on one leg, bending his knee back and forth slowly.  Dorian chuckled, giving him a sly look, and then Hawke had motioned to them to follow him.

  
And now, in the car, heading back into Val Royeaux, back into the world again, Cole’s strange words echo in Dorian’s head: _He wants you to try.  Different is good, but sometimes hiding is safer_ _._  Does he want to be safe, or happy?   _I don’t know.  I just don’t know_ , he thinks and bites his lower lip.  He takes a deep breath in, then utterly against his will, turns in his seat to look at Bull.  He is sitting with the window open, one horn protruding from it, his chin on his hand.  Cassandra’s head rests on his shoulder - she is asleep.  And then Bull’s head shifts slightly, and he looks at Dorian.  Just looks, nothing more.  For a moment, they hold each other’s gaze, and then Bull looks away, out the open window again.  All the words sit on Dorian’s tongue, something clenches in his chest and he feels… torn somehow.  Certain and terrified at the same time.  He turns back around, sees Hawke stifle a yawn of his own, and begins to fiddle with the radio.  The only station he can find with any clarity is playing Viktoria, the divine, and he switches it off again.  Silence reigns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the Automated Rhythms Act that Anders mentioned? That is based on the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994, which is a piece of British legislation which curtailed a great many freedoms due in part to the events at the Castlemorton Common Festival, a free party and rave in 1992. While not specifically directed at EDM, the Act which would become unofficially known as the 'Repetitive Beats Act' actually did contain a clause which mentions "sounds wholly or predominantly characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats." (section 63(1)(b) 
> 
> If you're at all interested in what was playing in both my head and my ears while I was writing the scene in the silo, it was this kind of thing (by the way, if you have photosensitive epilepsy, or any other thing which is triggered by rapid flashing or movement, please do use descretion when viewing the following videos!) ['Demons Inside the Box (Extended Mix)'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AI8jsYIclZ0) by The Twins Artcore; ['The Poison'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_VJcRSalvM) by Miss K8; and ['Hardcore makes the World Move (DJ Promo Remix)'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ShBode6Um60) by Art of Fighters.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody dresses up for Vivi. Dorian gets the same message twice. An awkward confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new characters for this chapter, but I've included the tags: fashion, parties, drinking and dancing, declarations of love to the tag list.

* * *

"Things are changing / In such a permanent way / Life seems unreal, can we go back to your place / 

You drink too much, it makes me do the same."

 _Alone, Together_ The Strokes ( _Is This It_ , 2001)

* * *

 

The fabric is perfect - a deep, ink black in the finest wool.  The cut suits him, he knows it, but as Dorian smoothes an imaginary crease from the shoulder of the suit jacket, turning slightly in the bathroom mirror, he cannot help but observe rather critically how the vents are pushed out in the back.   _ Your arse is getting fat _ _,_ he thinks, and huffs.  Too late now to regret those fries he had swiped off Bull’s plate at lunch, and he shrugs into the mirror.  The blood-red cloth of his collar is smooth, set wide enough to accommodate the large knot he’s tied into the bright cloth-of-silver silk that he had purchased with Cassandra yesterday.  Nails varnished in dark red, hair immaculate, and even he has to admit it - he smells  _ amazing .   Preening peacock _ _,_ he scolds himself, and smiles into the bathroom mirror.  

 

The show has been a success again, though Dorian has to give Knives Where You Least Expect Them their due - they rocked hard.  Vivi was a tour de force, precision and malice, almost sparkling with the stage lights.  Her band are clearly terrified of fucking up, she keeps them on a short leash throughout the performance, but Maker, it works.  Again, it had been clockwork, gorgeous clockwork, such pleasure to work with such professionals.   Dorian grins again at himself in the mirror, adjusting the knot on his tie as he thinks of Fader backstage.  Hawke and Isabela had run absolute riot; Hawke deliberately baiting Vivienne in some political argument, Isabela flirting atrociously with her band, which wound Vivienne up terribly.  Perhaps that had contributed to the viciousness with which she had performed.  Dorian chuckles in reminiscence at the way Anders had hugged him before he went on stage, how he had muttered, “Break a leg, poppet,” into his ear.  He adjusts his cuffs and sighs, then turns slightly as he hears a tentative knock at the door and Cullen says from behind it, “Can I come in?”

 

“Sweet Maker, someone dragged you backward through a stylists, didn’t they?”  Dorian cannot avoid the surprise in his voice at the sight which greets him as he opens the door.  Cullen huffs and scrunches his mouth sideways, then rubs the back of his neck, looking pleased with himself.  His hair is tied up into a loose, casual topknot and the dark blue of his suit (three pieces, Dorian notes, and the slim cut of the trousers looks  very dashing) accentuates the golden hue of his eyes.  He holds out a narrow, pale yellow tie to Dorian and asks, “Can you tie this for me?  I haven’t done it since school, and I keep fucking it up.”

 

Dorian laughs, and steps aside for Cullen to enter.  He takes the tie from Cullen, and looks at it, puzzling.  “Is this silk?  Well, we have been wasting our talents, Cullen.  I never would have thought you’d have such sophisticated taste.”

Cullen laughs and shakes his head, pulling his collar up for Dorian.  “I wish I could take the credit.  Bull dragged me out yesterday, while you were out with Cass and Josie.  He’s responsible for the suit and the tie.  And the…” he gestures toward his hair, and arches an eyebrow.  “It doesn’t look stupid, does it?”

 

“No, not at all.  You look… extraordinary, really.”  Dorian tilts his head, knows he is staring a little and shakes his head.  He sighs, passing the length of fabric around Cullen’s neck and beginning to tie the knot in his tie.  “You smell nice,” Cullen tells him and immediately blushes.  

Dorian laughs, “Well I  _ should, _ ” he says lightly, completely ignoring Cullen’s obvious embarrassment, “This cologne cost an arm and a leg.”

“It was worth it,” Cullen tells him, and Dorian sees his jaw work as he clenches his teeth.  Dorian sighs.  

“You know, Cullen, you’re practically screaming no-homo right now.  Relax.  You can compliment me without me thinking that you’re interested.”  He pauses, steps back from Cullen and looks at him, grinning wickedly, “Unless you  are interested, and I’m just being terribly obtuse..?”

 

“No, no,” Cullen tells him, and sighs, then laughs and looks at the floor.  “Sorry,” he mutters, “I didn’t mean to be a dick…”

Dorian shakes his head, “No offense taken.  I just hate the idea that you feel that you can’t tell me how utterly spectacular I look because you’re worried I’m going to want to jump your bones as soon as the words are out of your mouth.  Though in that suit…”  He makes a show of looking Cullen up and down then, and laughs, flapping his hand to show he is only joking.  Cullen smiles at him and then the door opens, and Bull says, “Aw, lookit you two.  Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

 

Dorian is… well, he’s speechless.  He stands there, mouth agape, truly stunned by Bull’s fucking sensational suit.  For one thing, it’s purple.  The fabric is fine wool, dyed a perfect shade of such brilliant amethyst that Dorian can hardly believe it.  He wears this gorgeous suit with a shirt of dark rose-pink, the spread of the collar perfectly balanced with the knot he’s chosen - wider than a Windsor, but Dorian cannot name it.  And the tie, ugh, for an instant Dorian regrets his own choice of the silk scarf, because Bull’s is utterly immaculate.  It’s a pale orange silk, with a wide pale pink check pattern, very, very fine.  His pocket square is the same fabric.  Dorian’s hand itches to touch it, feel the slightly rough texture of the wool, the smooth cotton warmed by Bull’s skin, the soft, ethereal touch of the silk.  Instead, he takes a deep breath and asks, in a strangled voice, “Purple?”

 

“Good spotting, Dorian,” Bull snorts, and gestures to Cullen.  "What did you think of our boy here?  Scrubs up pretty nice, doesn't he?"

"He does indeed."  But Cullen is all but forgotten to Dorian now.  He continues to stare at Bull, the way the buttons on the suit are an almost identical shade to the tie, how, ugh, is that dark orange topstitching?  He glares at Bull and asks, "Contrast lining?"

Bull smirks, undoes the three closed buttons on the jacket and flips it open by way of answer.  Of course, bright tangerine.  Dorian's nostrils flare in irritation and he says archly, "Well, I'm sure your sleeve buttons aren't working buttons..."

 

Again, that annoying smirk, and Bull crooks his arm at the elbow (ugh,  _ double cuffs  _ of course, damnit, and not even a tacky cufflink to mock) and begins unbuttoning the six buttons at his wrist.  

"Fine, fine, you look alright," Dorian concedes, and Cullen snorts.  

"Damning by faint praise, dude.  I think he looks fucking awesome."  Bull purses his lips, smiling slightly, and Dorian sighs.  

“Yes.  He does.  You do,” he looks at Bull for a moment, then drops his eyes, “You do look fucking awesome.”

 

Bull laughs.  “Right back atcha, Dorian.  I think I’m just gonna walk behind you all night, because that cologne…”  He pauses, sniffing the air, and smiles, “Makes me hungry.”

Dorian exhales sharply through his nose and raises his eyebrows.  “Pervert,” he says, smiling coyly.  Their eyes lock for a moment, and Dorian knows, he just  _ knows _ _,_ or he thinks he does.  And it is too, too irritating, because this arse is going to make him  _ say it. _  So, to avoid the issue entirely, he looks at Cullen to ask, “Where’s Cassandra?”

 

“Don’t know.  Still getting ready, I suppose.”

 

“Ah well,” Dorian sighs, “We may as well wait downstairs as anywhere, and I don’t know if I feel entirely comfortable with the two of you cluttering up my personal space, so if you don’t mind…”  He makes a shoo-ing gesture with his hand, and Bull chuckles.  

“Alright, alright… c’mon, Culls, His Majesty wants his  personal space back… Hey,” he mutters to Dorian as Cullen grins at the both of them on his way out, “I mean it.  You do look seriously good in that suit.  And you definitely smell good enough to eat.”  He smiles, almost shyly, and pats Dorian’s arm twice.  

Dorian smiles, drops his gaze again and says, very quietly, “Thank you.  And I wouldn’t mind the address of your tailor, too…”

Bull smirks, shakes his head and tells Dorian, “Sure.  C’mon.  Let’s see if Cass and Josie have beaten us to it.”

 

Cullen sighs, leaning on the doorjamb.  “Fucksakes,” he mutters, and Bull grins.  

“C’mon, Culls.  Prettying up isn’t like, a quick swish with the brush and shits done.  Gotta take your time, luxuriate over it a little.  How often do these girls get a chance to do that?”

“Not ofte…” Cullen begins, rather grudgingly, and then his eyes go round and he stops, failing to complete his sentence.  He blinks, and stands up.  Dorian sees him swallow, and turns to follow his gaze.  He grins, hugely, as Josephine and Cassandra cross the foyer of the small hotel.  Josephine drops him a wink, the bright violet of her dress spectacular against her skin and the beautiful bright gold of her hooped earrings.  Her glossy hair is piled up on her head in an elaborate updo,  but it is Cassandra that Dorian is smiling for.  Her eyes are downcast, but not in irritation or shame - the look on her face is proud, but demure.  Her short hair, usually worn rough and barely brushed, has been slicked into smooth acquiescence, finger waves folded neatly across her forehead; her dark eyes accentuated by subtle use of shadow and kohl.  Her lipstick is dark too, deep red, drawing attention to her the fullness of her lips, the sensuality of them.  

“Cass…” Cullen says, sounding choked, and then Bull laughs.  

“Well fuck me sideways, Cassandra Pentaghast.  You are a miracle.”

 

She laughs, hand running along the shining darkness that makes up the skirt of her dress.  The belt which cinches her waist is beaten silver and everite, which matches the beads sewn into the high neck.  Sheer, dark blue fabric overlays a sweetheart neckline - suggestive without being lewd, and the architectural pleating in the full skirt looks so dramatic, even under the stuttering fluorescents of the lobby.  Dorian feels rather smug, and looks at Josephine.  She giggles and tells him, “Yes, yes, I know.  You two clearly know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Josephine,”  Cassandra grins, and runs her hand up one tattooed arm.  “Are we going to this stupid party, or what?”

 

-|||-

 

The door is unmarked.  A Tal Vashoth stands outside it, tall and imposing, his one broken horn worn like a badge of honour.  He smirks at them as they approach, and nods, knocking in a complex rhythm on the door.  The door opens, and they walk down a warm, blood coloured corridor into a strange octagonal space with a domed ceiling, made entirely out of glass, allowing the bright harvest moonlight to stream through into the darkness.  There are booths along the wall, recessed into the space, and tables dotted around the periphery of the dancefloor.  A funky quartet is playing, and a rather adorable elf is singing in a husky voice,  _ I’m beggin’ please! stop playin’ games!.. I don’t know what this is, but you got me good, just like I knew you would… _ “Thrown!” comes a familiar voice from behind Dorian, and he turns.

 

Once more, Vivi is in white, but this dress makes the light, summery confection she had worn to meet them in seem like a burlap sack.  The colour may be similar, but while that dress was airy, this is skin tight, and of virtually sheer lace, the traceries of which serve to emphasise the curvature of Vivi’s waist and hips.  The dress is long, descending to a flaring, full skirt that gives her even more of a regal bearing than usual.  And the jewels! They would befit a queen - diamonds, large ones, droop from her ears and neck, catching the low light with their white fire.  It is an incredibly on-point outfit, but Dorian watches as Vivienne’s face displays her shock when she looks at Cassandra.  It is gone in a moment, but he has to look away to conceal his smile.  

 

“My dears,” Vivi addresses them, looking at them each in turn, “You have done me proud.  Let me introduce you around…”  She beckons imperiously to a server, and they select glasses from the proffered tray.  Vivi smiles at them, then guides them down three stairs and begins to introduce them to various people.  Dorian gets the sense after a while that Vivi is merely displaying her power, and so he stops listening to names and trying to remember them, merely nodding and smiling at the introductions, which seem interminable.  After trying to discreetly wipe his hand after suffering one of the most insipid handshakes of his life from one awful Marquis or Compt or other, he watches as the man frowns at something over his shoulder, and turns to whisper to his companion.  Dorian, intrigued, turns, but seeing who has arrived, he smirks, touching Vivi’s shoulder and asks, “Vivi, darling, please excuse me.  People to see.”

 

Hawke holds out his arms to Dorian, grinning.  He wears a, good Maker, a yellow crushed satin suit, with the most alarmingly eye-popping green shirt and tie.  “Bonjour, mon ami,” he smirks, and gestures to Anders, “je vous présente cette pièce chaude du cul.”

“Chaude, indeed.  Where  _ did  _ you get that dress?  I refuse to believe you just had that knocking about in your suitcase.”

“Are you talking to me, or Anders, honeybunch?” Isabela laughs, hugging Dorian. She is wearing gold lamé, the neckline slashed almost to her navel.  Merrill beams proudly beside her in a powder-blue suit, the ruffles on the white shirt and the black velvet bow tie almost as much a fashion crime as Hawke.  Dorian smiles as he tells them, “Utterly spectacular, you two. But yes, I was referring to Anders.”

 

Anders grins, smooths a hand over his velvet covered thigh.  The halter necked dress he wears is almost the same shade as Hawke’s shirt, but since it is only contrasted with the pale pink of his flesh and not the rather violent yellow of the truly awful crushed satin, it doesn’t look nearly as horrifying.  In fact… not horrifying at all.  Really rather lovely, actually.  “I’ll never tell,” he smirks and then sighs.  “Blame this dick and his instinct for social carnage.”

Hawke blinks, then smiles a trifle sadly as he winds his hand into Anders’.  He rubs the back of his other hand gently over the other man’s exposed arm, and says, his voice serious, “Any time you want to go, just say.”

Anders looks at Hawke and smiles softly.  “Nah, I’m okay.  As long as you’re here.”  Dorian swallows, sad and uncomfortable, and yes, it has to be admitted, a trifle jealous.  “Ooh, lovely lovebirds!” Merrill giggles, “c’mon Izzy, dance with me!”

 

Dorian smiles at the two women, then purses his lips and looks at his nails.  “I notice that neither of you have commented on my spectacular outfit.”

“Oh dear, where  are my manners?”  Hawke grins, “Dorian, baby, you look intensely fuckable.  What I wouldn’t give to tear those no doubt custom-made pants off that incredible ass.  Why, I do declare, I’ll just buy you some new ones with my pots of sovereigns.  What?” he asks, mockingly, “Too gauche?”

 

“Hawke, darling, you never discuss money with the rich,” Anders says in a faux-pompous voice, “That is just too, too difficult for them to understand.  What is a sovereign, even?  Money is just a concept, not an actuality!  Let them eat cake, baby!”

“Alright, alright, very fucking amusing.”  Dorian rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest.  “You know, I  do work for a living now…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anders says, his mouth curling into a small smile.  He looks around at the assembled groups and takes a deep breath.  He can feel the mellow, familiarity of the love between Anders and Hawke, the little gestures that they make which mirror each other - a curl of the lip, a continual reaching out for the others presence, as if for reassurance.  He exhales, smiling.

 

Hawke clears his throat and smiles at Dorian. “As much as I’d love to stay and continue to mock the pants off you, Dorian,  _ dah-ling _ _,_ I’m gripped by a powerful urge to sweep this fine specimen off his feet on the dancefloor.”  He grins at Anders, who rolls his eyes, “Tal, gimme a break…”

“Nope.  One dance!  It’s not gonna kill you!  I promise not to stand on your toes this time.”

Anders looks pityingly at Hawke and then shakes his head.  “Alright,” he sighs, “No dips though.”

“No dips, scouts honour.”  Hawke looks very serious, and then holds out his hand to Anders, as the band strikes up again, something slow and sultry.  “I’ll even let you lead.”

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Anders smiles down at him and then looks ruefully at Dorian, “Come save me if he makes me do another one, huh?”

 

“Certainly.”  Dorian keeps the smile in place until Hawke has lead Anders away, out onto the smallish dance floor.  He watches them for a moment, the moonlight and low ambient lighting catching in Anders’ hair, the bright green of his dress and Hawke’s shirt making them both seem ethereal amongst the dark suits and dresses, like birds of rare plumage come among common sparrows and pigeons.  He sighs, rather sadly, then allows his gaze to meander around the room.  He sees Vivi and Bull, deep in discussion, she is smiling at him rather indulgently, though Bull looks downcast.  He twirls his cocktail glass on the table, taking it gently by the stem between his index finger and thumb.  Dorian watches through the twirling couples as the singer moans,  _ You, soft and only.  You, lost and lonely; you, strange as angels, dancing in the deepest oceans… _ Then, as he is watching Bull, another motion catches his eye and he looks away, though his mind is still puzzling over the expression on Bull’s face.

 

The motion which has arrested Dorian’s attention is a man, laughing as he shakes his long, blond hair out, letting it tumble down his back.  It takes a moment for Dorian to realise that it is Cullen, Cullen who tosses his hair off his shoulders with the back of one hand, Cullen laughing.  Dorian smiles, wondering who it is that he… oh.   _ Oh. _ Cullen has stepped aside slightly, and it is Cassandra, looking up at him, her mouth slightly open, smiling gently.   _ Idiots in love, _ Dorian thinks fondly,  _ Andraste, have they just realised they’re on the same page? _  But as he continues to watch the pair of them, it would seem that they are merely talking.  Dorian sighs.

 

-|||-

 

The time and alcohol flow.  The music changes slightly as the darkness loses its stranglehold on the sky.  Dorian talks, dances, drinks; laughs at Cullen trying to figure out where to put his hands on Isabela as she grins at him with one hand on her hip.  He dances with Vivi, laughs with her (and at her a little, it must be admitted).  The wine flows, the conversations grow louder and more heated.  

 

Dorian laughs when Hawke, quite drunk now, pulls him out onto the dancefloor.  Anders laughs, calls, “You’ve got a fresh victim!”, and Hawke cackles.  He holds Dorian tightly, grinning, then waggles his eyebrows.  “You up for a dip?”

“Uh, no.  No, I’m really fine.”

Hawke pouts, “Party pooper.  Cass let me dip her.”

“It’s because of what happened to Cassandra that I’m not letting you dip me.  Honestly, you’re lucky she’s tipsy, my dear, otherwise you’d be in real trouble.”

“Pfft,” Hawke snorts, “The day Pentaghast causes me trouble is the day I’ll hang up my guitar.  Besides, I told her I’d make Fenris talk to her.”

Dorian laughs.  Perhaps he is a little tipsy himself, because he blurts, “And just how will you make the Lycanthrope do that?”

“Ah, that’s the thing.  You can’t  _ make _ Fenny do anything.  But you can suggest, and eventually he thinks it’s his idea.”  Hawke suddenly sighs and purses his lips.  He takes a deep breath and says, “I’m really in no condition to be doing this, but Anders has made me.  And Maker knows I’d do anything for that cat-loving jumble of tensions, so here it goes.  Are you listening?”

Dorian frowns slightly, but nods, intrigued.  “Good.  Because this comes in the form of a message.  Hang on, I’m going to hold you tighter so you can’t punch me or electrocute me.”  He adjusts his grip on Dorian’s waist and hand slightly, then leans close to whisper, “It’s obvious.  Just tell him, and get it over.  That’s the worst bit.  Trust me, I know.”  He leans back from Dorian and grins, but there is something cautious, concerned about it.  “Lots of love, Anders.  Message received?”

 

Dorian raises his eyebrow and looks over to where Anders is standing, on the edge of the dance floor.  Anders smiles slightly, looking worried, then nods.  He folds his arms over his chest, and then Josephine touches his arm, holding a glass toward him.  He accepts it, and the moment is broken.  Dorian looks back at Hawke and sighs, “Message received. You are all a bunch of meddling assholes, really, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.  But seriously, it is the worst part.  Anders and I danced around each other for fuckin’ ages before we got our shit together.  And Fenris, that prickly bastard, he resisted my charms even longer, if you can believe it…”

“I’m… I’m sorry?  Aren’t you and Anders…”

Hawke shrugs, “Long story.  Look, I’ll say no more, but don’t wait if you don’t have to.”  He looks over toward Anders himself then, and Dorian can see the sadness in his eyes, before Hawke turns back to him and tells him, “Everything can change, so quickly.  Just say it, ‘kay?”

 

The night wears on.  Dorian and Josephine have been discussing the present and future state of Inquisition Records - he’s been astonished with what good shape their selection of artists is for such a relatively short-run business.  There is a momentary lull in the coversation, and Josephine asks, so softly that he barely hears her, “You know, I wonder if you can answer something for me?”

“Certainly,” he tells her, rather intrigued.  “That is, if it’s not too personal a question.”

She smiles. “What do you want?”

 

Dorian is taken aback for a moment, then frowns.  “What everyone wants,” he says blithely, “Happiness, I suppose.”

“Happiness,” Josephine repeats.  “Such a little word to mean so much.  Are you happy, Dorian?”  A pause, where Josephine scrutinises him, “Could you ever be?”

They watch the dancers whirl for a moment longer, Dorian lost in thought.  Suddenly, he looks at her and smiles slightly.  “Is this about Bull, again? My goodness, I already got the talk from everybody else, why not you as well?  Welcome to the club, Josephine.”

 

“Fair enough,” Josephine smiles at him.  “I won’t repeat the sentiment.  But just… answer the question?”

Dorian sighs, “No, I suppose.  I don’t think I’m built for contentment, if that’s what you mean.  But I like to think everybody can attain a measure of happiness, if only for a while.  The alternative is just too, too tragic.”

“An optimist,” Josephine smiles.  “You know…”

“Josie, you mind if I cut in?  Dorian?  You wanna dance?” Comes a voice from behind Dorian, and Josephine grins.  

 

Dorian sighs, trying to cover the fact that his heart is already leaping in his chest, and his stomach is sinking.  He turns toward Bull, and nods, catching Josephine’s delighted expression and her light touch on his elbow - encouragement, perhaps.  They walk together closer to the dance floor.   _ Tell him, he wants you to _ _,_ Cole’s voice whispers, and Dorian arches an eyebrow to ask, “I suppose you want to lead this dance as well?”

Bull laughs, “I’m okay with you leadin’, if that’s what you want to do.”  He approaches Dorian slowly, almost tentative, holding out his hands.  Dorian swallows again, though his mouth is dry.  He takes one of Bull’s hands, slides the other up Bull’s huge chest, resting it just below the peak of his lapel.  

 

Their bodies come together, and Dorian feels as if he can barely breathe.  He is oblivious to everything, everything in the world comes down to the light reflecting in Bull’s eye, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way the low light turns his skin from silver to gunmetal.  They dance, really only revolving on the spot as other couples move around them.  The singer moans, _ You can call it what you want.  You can call me anything you want.  You can call us what you want.You can call me anything you want.   _ Words race around Dorian’s head, impossible to catch them, impossible to say what he feels, the consequences are too great.  What if Bull doesn’t feel the same, what if it is all just a lark to Bull, what if, oh, what if he laughs, what if there’s someone else?  But if he doesn’t say it now, he never will, oh Maker, time seems to slow as his pulse echoes with the heavy drum beat in his temples and he blurts out, “Bull, I…”  _ love you, I love you, please tell me you feel the same, just tell me anything, tell me to go away, that it’s wrong, I love you I love you, you can stop pretending, please tell me I can too,  _ “Bull,” he says, feeling like his mouth is full of ash, guilt and shame and hope and anger all at war within him as Bull looks at him slowly, his breath seeming to hitch as he stumbles once more with the words, “Bull, I think… I love you.”

  
They stop dancing.  Dorian feels lost, stupid, silently begging that Bull at least has the decency not to stomp on his heart too completely.  He tries to smile, begins to frame some sort of face-saving comment, bites the inside of his cheek hard.   _ Idiot _ _,_ he thinks,  _ you’ve ruined the first good thing to happen to you in years.  You and your stupid big mouth! _ then Bull smiles, and the smile is so grateful, so full of relief that Dorian gapes at him.  The huge hands encircle Dorian, draw him in.  Then Bull bends down further, and Dorian quails momentarily, suddenly worried that Bull will try to kiss him.  But Bull’s mouth goes to his ear instead, where he whispers, “Idiot.” His voice is rough, his breathing sharp, almost panting.  “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of quick things, and then I'll see you next year!   
>  \- Hawke says 'Hello my friend, may I present this hot piece of ass' in French to Dorian. Well, that's what I was looking up on Google Translate when I was trying to get that point across.  
>  \- Cassandra's dress is based on [this one by Alexander McQueen](https://4myfancyworld.files.wordpress.com/2013/02/alexander-mcqueen-prom-dresses-2013.jpg), but everyone else's outfits are cribbed together from various meanderings through the Internet.  
>  \- The songs identified by lyrics in Florienne de Chalon's club are: ['Mercy'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7ZEVA5dy-Y) by Duffy (Rockferry, 2008), ['Just Like Heaven'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n3nPiBai66M) by The Cure (Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, 1987), and ['Remain Nameless'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5w83Fgv347Q) by Florence and the Machine (Ceremonials, 2011)
> 
> Phew. Okay, have a lovely break, or enjoy whatever it is that you lovely folks do at this time of year, and I'll begin posting again in 2016 (Sweet Sword of Mercy, now that's a scary thought!)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian wants to stay, but doesn't. Cullen creeps out and makes a rather awkward confession. Bull takes Dorian unicorn hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! See, I _told_ you all that I'd be back, and now that Nightmare Season... ahem, I mean the holidays... are over, I can get back to slaving over a hot story. I'm going back to one posting a week for a while, and it'll be on a Saturday or Sunday, just FYI.
> 
> Some new tags for this chapter: Self Confidence Issues, Confessions, Possible Unrequited Love, Fans and Shopping.

* * *

“A knife twists at the thought that I should fall short of the mark / Frightened by the bite though it’s no harsher than the bark / Middle of adventure, such a perfect place to start…”

_ 505 _ , Arctic Monkeys ( _ Favourite Worst Nightmare _ , 2007)

* * *

 

 

“Hey… hey, Dorian, you don’t have to go.”

He knows that.  But he still rises, listening to the burr and honk of traffic out in the early morning.  Dorian doesn’t remember much more of last night - everything had narrowed down to that single moment, Bull’s breath on his ear as he’d told him he loved him.   _ He loves me _ , Dorian thinks, hardly daring to believe it, and feels a smile creep over his face.  Maker, he wants to turn around, cover Bull’s scars with kisses, tell him everything, all his secrets, all his lies.  He doubts he’s ever felt so happy, so alive to the possibility of happiness.  Dorian takes a sharp breath in, tries to still the giddy scudding of his heart.  But really, last night had been… so strange, so wonderful, he cannot help expecting it to all turn to shit at any moment.  He turns slightly as he pulls his trousers on and sees Bull leaning on one arm, head resting on his hand.  “I know that.  That is… I know that you don’t mind if I stay.  But… for the time being… would you mind if we kept it the way it has been?”

 

Bull frowns slightly, then shrugs.  “S’pose.  You sure you don’t wanna just come back to bed?”

There is nothing he wants more, of course.  But still, he says, “I’m sure.”  

“Okay.  I’m not gonna push you.  But so long as you know, okay?”

“Okay,” Dorian repeats, and bends to pick up his boots.  Now that he is really thinking about it, he wouldn’t put it past the universe to send his Father back to him at this, the apex of his happiness, or perhaps something equally horrid.   _ Equally horrid?  What on earth could be equal to that? _ he wonders dryly, then turns full around to Bull as he buttons his shirt.  “Do you… do you understand why I don’t want to stay just yet?”

 

“Yeah.  I think so.”  A pause, then quietly, Bull sighs.  The sound is lonely in the dim room, the smell of sex still heavy in the air, and Dorian’s lightness of heart is suddenly crushed by guilt.  

“Bull…” Dorian begins, but Bull cuts him off, speaking quietly.  He doesn’t look at Dorian directly as he says, “You know, I never told anyone that before.  That I loved them, I mean.  I think I understand you feeling that you want to keep this feeling wrapped up tight, that it’s too precious not to be locked away, kept inside where no-one can see it.  I’m not gonna push you,” Bull repeats, and looks at Dorian, his expression calm, “But I want to sing it out, show it off, you know?  I don’t wanna keep it balled up in my chest forever.”

 

Dorian is silent.  Finally, he breathes in.  “Bull, I understand that.  Give me… give me some time.  Alright?”

“Yeah, Dorian.  Of course.”  And Bull smiles, though he looks tired and worried as well to Dorian.  “Go on.  Hey, I got a place I’d love to show you.  You wanna take a drive later?”

Dorian smiles warmly.  “Of course.  I’d love to.”

 

He closes the door softly behind him.  Down the corridor further, a movement catches his attention, and he turns to see…  _ oh! _ Now this is an interesting development.  Cullen.  Coming out of Cassandra’s room.  His tie is undone around his neck, his hair is down, and his shirt is rumpled.  They will have to pass each other to get back to their respective rooms.  Dorian stifles a laugh, though just barely.  He grins down the corridor, waiting for Cullen to see him.  Finally, Cullen raises his head and halts, looking resigned.  “Shit,” he hisses softly, “It’s not what it looks like.”

 

“And what does it look like, Cullen?”  Dorian whispers in return.  “Comforting a sick friend, were we?”

“No, it’s not like that.  We just talked…”

“Uh  _ huh _ .” Dorian raises an eyebrow and points to Cullen’s boots.  “You needed to sneak out of the talk, did you?”

“Says he with the smudged makeup.  I like it,” Cullen smiles suddenly, waggling his eyebrows, “It’s very  _ derelicte _ .”

“Oh, vishante kaffas.  One night in a suit and you think you’re the style council,” Dorian huffs.  “Come on.  After I fix my face, you can buy me a coffee.”  He thinks for a second, then shrugs.  “And a pain au chocolate.”

Cullen laughs quietly.  “Okay, okay.  No need to get feisty.”

 

The steam from Cullen’s tea rises into the morning air, which is already warming and thick with the stench of exhaust and perfume from the women and men on their way to work.  The Royans throng the pavement, barely looking at Cullen and Dorian where they sit at a little table outside a café.   Cullen smiles, looking at Dorian sideways.  He picks up his cup and holds it in-between his hands as if to warm them.  “So.  It’s finally happened, huh?”

“I’m sorry?  What’s happened?”

“You and Bull.  You two.  The two of you.  Together.  Properly.”  Cullen pauses, reaches over to snag one of the remaining morsels of pastry from Dorian’s plate.  He grins when Dorian slaps at his hand, stuffing the purloined sweet into his mouth.  “Finally,” he says through a mouthful, “It was getting old, dancing around it.”

 

“Really,” Dorian says archly, “Well, I’m  _ so _ glad we could relieve you of the burden.”  He pauses, takes a sip of the black coffee, and then asks without looking at Cullen, “Was it really that obvious?”

“Oh yeah!” Cullen tells him without hesitation.  “All those long glances.  Even, like, the way you sort of held yourself a little straighter when he was around.  And I mean, in Denerim, when you got beat up?  We barely saw him, he was just always at the hospital, with you.”  Cullen pauses to wipe the crumbs of pastry from around his mouth, then looks sidelong at Dorian.  “At first I thought it was just that you were… I don’t know, nervous of him or something.  That maybe he wanted you to want him or...I don’t know.  I’ve known Bull longer than I’ve known you.  He’s thought you were something pretty special for ages.”

 

Dorian is silent.   _ Something pretty special _ , he repeats to himself.   _ Sweet Maker, we were in deep before either of us even realised it.  What a stubborn pair we make. _  Before he can catch himself, he asks, “How do you know last night wasn’t just a one-off?”

“Because of how you looked in the club.  That was the happiest I’ve ever seen you, man.  I’m not completely oblivious, you know.  We’ve all known you guys have been fucking for a while.”  He shrugs, ignores Dorian’s chagrinned expression.  “But, I mean, y’know, you smile a lot, but it doesn’t look happy.  It looks… like a defense, like you’re doing it because you don’t want people to look too hard.”  He stops to grin at Dorian, “It didn’t look like that last night.”

 

“Oh, to the Void with this.  Could we please just stop with the perceptiveness?  It’s giving me a headache.”  But it’s not, not really, and Dorian inhales deeply, trying to stop his eyes from prickling.  Cullen seems to sense what’s going on and averts his eyes, looking out at the minimal amount of sky visible above the towering buildings.  “Looks like it’s gonna be good travelling weather tomorrow.  Wonder what Montsimmard’s going to be like?”

“Nothing like here.  Anyway, don’t try to get out of it that way - I dished.  What’s going on between you and Cassandra?  You weren’t the only one nosying in the club, you know.  I saw you tossing your hair about like an enamoured schoolgirl.”

Cullen laughs and flips his hair over his shoulder, batting his eyelashes coquettishly at Dorian.  Then he shakes his head and says, “It’s nothing.  Really nothing.  She said my hair looked stupid like that, so I took it out.”  He shrugs and grins, “I trust her judgement more than you or Bull, I guess.”

 

“Really?”  Dorian is about to argue, but then shrugs.  “You can lead a styleless horse to the waters of fashion, but you cannot get it to drink, I suppose.”  He pauses, narrowing his eyes, “So what were you coming out of her room for..?”

 

“We really just talked.  Really.”

“And what’s  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.  Really.”

Dorian blows air out his lips and rolls his eyes.  He looks at Cullen steadily for a few moments before he raises an eyebrow.  “Are you  _ sure _ nothing happened?”

 

Cullen frowns.  “Look… can we just… Just drop it, okay?”

“So what was that look on your face when she came out of the elevator in that dress?”  Dorian folds his arms over his chest and smirks, “You can’t tell me you didn’t feel the stirrings…”

“Feel the stirrings?  Maker’s Breath.  Ugh, look, you’re an only child, right?”  Dorian nods.  “So maybe you won’t get this, but I guess it’s kind of like when you realise the kid you’ve lived next door to all your life isn’t quite the tree climbing, roughhousing little shit she used to be.  Suddenly, like, it seems overnight, she’s got…” Cullen holds his hands out in front of himself, cupping them around imaginary breasts, looking uncomfortable, “y’know, and she’s perfecting her ice queen demeanour, and you notice boys starting to look at her and stuff.  That was one of those moments.”  He looks at Dorian, and shakes his head, “You don’t get it, do you?”

 

“No, I think…” Dorian’s mind's-eye arrests on a mental image of Felix climbing out of the lake, water streaming off his naked torso, the smell of windfall peaches in his nose, the wind off the lake making the tall grass shiver and dance.  He inhales, then finishes, “I think I know what you’re talking about.”

Cullen looks doubtful, but obviously decides against any further comment.   “Yeah, well, whatever.  She seemed to impress Vivi, which was the whole point of the exercise.  And it turns out she’s just as nervy about… y’know, Skyhold, as I am.”

“I know why you’re nervous, and you absolutely don’t need to be.  If Lee’s going to cause trouble, surely he would have done it by now?”

 

Cullen sighs.  “You don’t know Lee at all.  That motherfucker could wait until the Black City turned gold again.  Did you know we’ll be in Verchiel at the same time as them?”

“Oh.  No, I didn’t.”  Dorian pauses.  He opens his mouth to say something else, to perhaps ask why it is that Cullen can’t just move on, have it all in the past.  But he knows, or thinks he does.  But, Maker take him, he is curious, and so he begins: “Look, don’t punch me in the face…”

“That’s an ominous way to start a line of questioning.” Cullen lowers his chin slightly and that suspicious look returns.  “Can’t promise anything.”

Dorian sighs.  Then, all in a rush he says, “Okay, well, back when I stayed at your parents house in Honnleath, when I lost my voice?  I… saw something.  In your room”  The concern on Cullen’s face is growing by the moment, so Dorian continues, now staring into the depths of his coffee cup.  “It was a photograph, of you and Lee.  There was one side with you, both of you, just mucking about, but the other side was a… well, it was …”

Cullen pales significantly, and he looks as if he might have stopped breathing.  Dorian swallows.  “I’m sorry,” he finishes lamely, “I know it wasn’t my business, but it… uh… fell off the wall.  I put it back exactly as it was before.”

 

Cullen sighs.  Very quietly, he says, “I’d forgotten about that photo.  There was a fête, it came to Honnleath every year or so.  It was the second or third time I’d ever done lyrium, and I just… I got caught up in the moment.”  He smiles, rather wanly.  “Bull’s the only other person that I ever told about Lee and I.  It’s strangely fitting that you would find out too.”

 

“You told Bull?  Not Cassandra? What about Meredith?  Otto?”

Cullen rolls his eyes.  “Meredith wasn’t exactly the type of person to inspire you to tell your secrets to.  Plus, she and Lee…”  He shrugs, “It was our band, but there was always this power struggle between them.  I was kind of pleased when I heard he finally got rid of her.  Otto was always a space cadet, if it wasn’t somehow related to putting down the magic-enabled he didn’t want to know.”  Cullen sighs again and looks ashamed of himself.  “Lee never got into that shit, but he had Meredith going.  And… and me, for a while.”

Dorian sighs and puts his chin on his hand.  “We all know what a world class jerk you  _ were _ , Cullen.  The fact of it is that you obviously don’t think like that now.  So?”  He peers at Cullen, “Why not tell Cassandra?”

 

Cullen shrugs.  “Because… ah, I don’t know.”  He looks so at sea, confused and worried, that Dorian feels a little sorry for him.  Then Cullen sits up slightly straighter, and looks almost pleadingly at Dorian.  “I mean, it’s not like I’m… I mean, I’m not… I… I still like girls.  It’s just…”  His mouth works a little, and the worried expression grows.  Then he mutters, “It’s just Lee.  He was… different.”

 

“Cullen, please.”  Dorian puts his forehead in his hands and sighs, then looks at Cullen from between his fingers.  “You don’t have to justify anything to me.  Fasta vass, least of all me.  It’s your life, for goodness sake.  But… no matter what you call it, I suppose… ”  There is no gentle way of saying it, so Dorian simply asks, “Don’t you think if you still have feelings for Lee, that it might be worth thinking a little harder about?”  He pauses, cocks his head questioningly, then asks, “You  _ do _ still have feelings for him, don’t you?”

 

Cullen swallows and blinks twice.   “I… don’t know.  Maybe.  It wouldn’t matter anyway.”  He swirls the tea in his cup and drinks it, then grimaces.  “Cold,” he says, “Come on, let’s get back.”

 

As they are walking back along the wide avenue, the sunlight playing through the leaves of the old elms which line the street, Dorian asks, “Alright - out with it.  Why is Cassandra nervous?”

“About what?  Oh.  Skyhold.”  There is a breath of silence, and then Cullen simply tells him, “Lily.”  

 

It takes Dorian a second to realise that he’s actually talking about Viktoria, the divine. He knows that Cassandra and Lily were friendly from their days with White Chant, when both Left Hand and Seek Truth O Maker’s Children! had been managed by an agent named Justinia something or other.  When their bands broke up, Justinia had been on the point of leaving White Chant anyway, and had bought the two along with her to the fledgling Inquisition Records.  However, after Justinia’s sudden death, around the time of Thrown from the Breach’s third album, things had begun to fall apart for the pair.  White Chant, with an eerie sense for blood in the water, had begun courting Lily to return as a solo artist; which turned out to be a good thing for Dorian, but was obviously terrible for the friendship between Lily and Cassandra.  He sighs, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his light jacket.  

“Yeah,” Cullen smiles, “Nothing but drama, right?”

 

-|||-

 

They make it back to the hotel, having only been stopped three times for autographs.  The first and third are just the de rigeuer giggling young women, who pose for selfies and skip down the street, cackling as they bury their faces in their smartphones.  The second, however, is really rather sweet.  It is an older man, who solemnly shakes their hands, then tells them, “My kids are never going to believe it.” 

Dorian smiles, “How old are your children?”

The man smiles back, and tells him, “Twenty one and nineteen.”

“Do you have a phone on you?” Dorian asks, and Cullen looks at him, puzzled.  The man produces a battered-looking, rather ancient cellphone.  “Which would you say would be less likely to believe you?”

“Cecilia,” the man tells him and Dorian asks, “Would you mind if I called her?”

The man laughs, handing Dorian his phone.  “Not at all, Mr Pavus.  That would be amazing.”

 

Dorian thumbs through the contacts until he finds Cecilia’s name.  After checking he has the right one, he calls.  Cullen is watching him, grinning, and then a young woman’s voice is on the phone.  “What is it, Dad?  I’m going to class.”

“Cecilia, it’s not your father.  It’s Dorian Pavus, from Thrown from the Bre…”

He is cut off by an almighty shriek.  He laughs, holding the phone away from his ear.  Cullen and the girl’s father both laugh as Cecilia continues to shriek down the phone.  “Cecilia, calm down!  Are you alright?”

“OMakerOMakerforreal?  For really real is this… Oh Maker, is this Dorian  _ Pavus _ ?”

“The very same, my dear.”

“Oh Andraste’s ever-fucking Mercy… oh shit!”

“Language!” her father yells, though he laughs, and Dorian smiles.  “Extenuating circumstances, yes?”

Cecilia takes a deep breath.  “Can I put you on speaker, please?”

Dorian laughs, “Of course.”  He hears the tell-tale change in the quality of the phone line and says into the ether, “Hello Cecilia’s friends.  This is Dorian Pav…”

He gets almost to the last syllable of his name before more screaming and delighted laughter crackles down the line.  There is a few moments more of this before Cecilia’s voice says, rather breathlessly, “Say something else.”

“A please wouldn’t kill you, would it?” Dorian quirks an eyebrow and grins at Cecilia’s father, who smirks and nods his approval.

She laughs, then Dorian hears her swallow.  “Please?”

 

“Certainly.  Well, here I am, standing on the Avenue of the Sun in central Val Royeaux, and a charming man has just introduced himself to me as your father.  He maintained that you wouldn’t believe we had met, and so, of course, I came up with this rather stunning plan of making sure that he would be believed.  Cecilia?  Be good to your father, my dear.”  Dorian swallows and looks at the man, who is beaming delightedly.  “He seems rather a good sort.”

 

He pauses, thinking suddenly of his own father.  He sighs and flicks his smile back into place, the best magic trick he knows.  Cullen is looking at him with a strange expression, so he looks away and tells Cecilia, “Well, my dear, we must dash.  It was a pleasure talking to you.  Remember what I said.”

“I will,” she affirms, then adds all in one breath, “Dorian, I totally love you.”

“And I totally love you too.  Goodbye, sweetheart.”

 

He hands the cellphone back to the man, who takes it from him gently.  “Thank you.  You didn’t have to do that.”

Dorian smiles and hands him back his phone. “I know.  Call it rockstar largesse.  Have a good day, sir.”  

 

-|||-

 

Bull laughs when Dorian tells him the story, later that day in the car.  “So you are a nice guy.  Under all the front.”

“Don’t let my one-off marshmallowness fool you, Bull.  Evil baby-Magister, remember?”  He looks at Bull over the top rim of his sunglasses, then pushes them back into place.  “Where in the Void are we going?”

 

“It’s a secret.  Betcha you’ll never guess…”

Dorian considers.  “A record shop?  Ooh, you’re taking me antiquing!”  Bull grins and shakes his head.  Dorian frowns and wrinkles his nose.  “A… dive bar?  Are we going to listen to bad music and get drunk?”

“I told you you’ll never guess. So stop tryin’.”

“I’ll never stop trying, Bull.  Is it… oh, fasta vass.  Is it a thrift shop?”  Dorian looks at Bull, willing him to contradict the statement, but Bull looks at him with an expression of shock.  “Oh Maker.  Bull!  A  _ thrift shop _ ?  Are you..?  You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Dorian.”

 

The place smells of damp, and of old people’s socks.  When Dorian tells this to Bull, while trying to expel as little air as possible so that he will not have to breathe the wretched stink in again, Bull smiles.  “Smells like unicorns to me.”

 

“Unicorns.  That’s it.  You’ve gone around the twist.  Goodbye, I’ll wait for you in the car.”  But Bull takes Dorian gently by the shoulder, turns him around.  “C’mon.  Have a look around.  You never know what you’ll find in a place like this.”  He pauses and says, offhandedly, “Found the fabric that the suit you liked so much was made of in a place like this.”

Dorian narrows his eyes.  “Alright. But if you come out with a fennec fur coat and all I find is pants that someone’s grandfather died in, then I’ll be extraordinarily unhappy.”

  
  


“A sovereign!  Look!  Maker, they may as well be  _ giving  _ it away!”  Dorian croons, brandishing another of his finds.  “And look at this one, it’s real, feel it, oh, lovely… actually, don’t get too close to that, it smells like someone pissed in it, but still… for two sovereigns and eighty, that’s worth money for drycleaning.”

Bull chuckles, inclining his head.  “Did you have a look in the instruments yet?”

Dorian gapes.  “No!  It’s probably all just clapped out junk, but who cares!  Bull, this is amazing, where are they?”

“Come with me,” Bull says, beckoning Dorian forward.  He leads Dorian toward a corner, piled high with old monitors, keyboards and defunct toasters.  They walk past chipped china, posters of bands long since gone out of style, countless pieces of nondescript velvet paintings of Dalish women with one bare breast, flowers in their hair, looking gormless and pretty.  Dorian doesn’t even smell the place anymore, as he drags his rather heavy pile of clothing along in Bull’s wake, he watches the shift of muscles under Bull’s shirt, the movement of his hips as he walks.  He doesn’t know the words for what he feels, and he can feel that his expression has turned rather gormless as well.  Still, he manages to glare at Bull when he turns back around to face Dorian, holding out an arm.  “I can hold your stuff, if you wanna rummage?”

 

Dorian piles the coats and jackets and t-shirts into Bull’s outstretched arm, not even looking at him.  There are a couple of headstocks poking out of the top of a pile of weird electrical detritus, what looks like a dismembered Korg 900PS keyboard and some sort of computer system.  His breath shortens as he reads the name on one of them, painted in tarnished gold on tatty white - Gretsch.  

 

It is chipped, possibly useless, but he is powerless to resist as he walks toward the guitar.  He moves the Korg aside, and a Gibson with a cracked neck, half the strings hanging loose.  The mother of pearl inlays are there, oh dear, he shifts an elderly Fender aside to sit with the Korg and gasps.  There it is, the little penguin which would indicate that he has just stumbled upon a Gretsch White Penguin, a guitar the company famously made for a brief period for tradeshows and has now become… what was Bull’s phrase?... that’s right, a unicorn.  Dorian licks his lips, studying the guitar.  It has no strings, the paintwork is chipped, the pickguard and volume knobs are worn and may need significant repair, but it is here, and he has found it.  He can barely believe it, but he looks at the price tag.  “Fasta vass,” he whispers, “Ten sovereigns.”

“Are you gonna get it?”  Bull asks.

 

Dorian pauses.  He runs a hand down the neck of the guitar, exhales.  “You know,” he says, not daring to look at Bull, “If I was a more religious man, I might take this as some kind of sign, or sanction from on high.”

Bull laughs, but Dorian can hear the confusion in the sound.  So he continues, “Yes.  I am going to get it.  And I’ll tell you the rest of the story in the car.”

 

-|||-

 

“So?”  Bull asks, almost as soon as he has reversed out of the parking lot, “You gonna tell me the story?”

 

Dorian laughs.  Honestly, he feels a little stupid about it now, but he did say he would, so he looks out the window at the passing nondescript suburbia.  “My grandfather gave me my first guitar.  Before he married, before he became a giant of the Magisterium, he had illusions of being a musician.”  Dorian smiles, remembers the wrinkled hands showing him how to make his first chord, and the cracked and rather churlish voice muttering,  _ All the best music begins with G.  You remember that, Dorian. _  “It was an old Silvertone, nothing much really, but it meant a lot to me, and to him, I think.  I used it on some of the acoustic tracks for Tempus, and on the night that we got picked up by Imperium.”  He sighs, and there is a moment of quiet in the car, just broken by the rush of wheels, the sound of motion.  “I couldn’t take it with me when I… when I came here.”

 

“The guitar I have with me, now, the guitar I brought with me to the audition for Thrown?”  He doesn’t wait for an acknowledgment from Bull, though he can imagine his nod, “That was given to me by my best friend.  His name is… was… Felix.  Felix Alexius.”   _ All these years, and it still hurts _ , he thinks idly, and continues, smiling, “Felix gave me the guitar on my twenty fifth birthday.  Ostensibly, it was a birthday gift; but he knew that the writing was on the wall for me, knew I couldn’t stay with Imperium forever.  He also knew… about all the stupidity that had gone on between my father and I.  And...”  Dorian pauses, harrumphs to try and clear the lump in his throat, “He was trying to say goodbye for himself, as well.  He died two days after that.”

 

He looks at Bull then, meaning it to just be a glance.  But Bull looks at him at the same moment, turns his head and their eyes lock, and Dorian feels the smile crumble.  He sets his jaw, looks away from Bull’s steady gaze, and breathes in.  The hot flush of tears stings his vision, and he covers his eyes, trying to will them away.  There, in the dark under his eyelids, he remembers Felix’s voice telling him,  _ use it Dorian.  Don’t let it sit here, mouldering in its case.  Let it be free _ .  He struggles for a moment, then breathes out a ragged breath.  “He knew I couldn’t be happy just living to fulfill other people’s expectations of me, knew I wanted, I want, to change things for the better, to make people see that Tevinter, that… I don’t know, that things can be better, that things can change.”  He uncovers his eyes, swallows, then looks at Bull, “You probably think that’s foolish.”

 

Bull snorts, and smiles slightly.  “No.  I don’t.  I really don’t.”  Quiet for a moment longer, then Bull says softly, “Hey, you don’t have to tell me…”

“Said I would, didn’t I?” Dorian tells him, rather more abruptly than he means to, and then smiles.  “Besides, I haven’t yet gotten to the Sign of the Penguin.”

Bull laughs and shrugs.  After taking a moment to compose himself, Dorian continues, “Anyway, I don’t know, it just seems like this guitar is… ah, kaffas, this sounds so stupid…”  He waits, hoping Bull will let him off the hook, but when he says nothing, Dorian is forced to continue, “Well, alright, I just thought… the first guitar given to me bought me a record contract.  The second guitar gifted to me brought me the gig with Thrown.  And this guitar, found in a place I never would have been in, if it hadn’t been for you… well.”  He rubs his hands surreptitiously on his jeans, trying to quell the nerves and the feeling of stupidity.  “Well, it means…”

 

“Dorian,” Bull says kindly, and looks at him briefly, before turning to look back at the road.  “Dorian, it was all you, baby.  You did all that stuff all by yourself.  You’re talented, you have crazy ambition, and you work damn hard for everything you get.  Don’t sell yourself short by ascribing the things that you've achieved to luck.  It’s not luck.  You’ve been making your own luck all this time.  You’re amazing.”  He looks at Dorian again, longer than before, and tells him quietly, seriously, “I love you.”

 

The words seem to circle and spin, coiling inside Dorian, where they sit, bright and huge.   _ He loves me _ , he thinks again, and his small smile bursts into a grin.  His eyes prickle a little again, so he sniffs haughtily, turning his head to stare out the windscreen.  “Well, you are a terrible beast, and I hate you.   _ Thrift shopping _ , Maker of All, how could you?  I’ll never get the stink out.”

“Aw, c’mon.  You came away with more stuff than me, in the end.”

“And yet you’re the one with the fennec fur.  I did warn you what would happen…”

Bull laughs, and Dorian joins him, as they speed back to their final soundcheck in Val Royeaux.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull reads poetry. Introductions are made. Cullen resolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new tags that I can think of for this chapter (though as usual, some of the old ones apply)  
> But we get a new character! Raleigh (or, for the purposes of Wastelands, Lee) Samson.

* * *

“Here I am expecting just a little bit / too much from the wounded / But I see / See through it all / See through / See you.”

_ 3 Libras _ , A Perfect Circle ( _ Mer de Noms _ , 2000)

* * *

 

 

Montsimmard - the less said about it the better, in Dorian’s opinion.  The opening band is truly terrible; a stupid name,  _ Andraste’s Tits _ it is, but it suits them - awful, abrasive lyrics, and repetitive, dull guitar.  Perhaps they know three chords, but only if you were feeling generous.  Cassandra had left halfway through watching them perform their first song, throwing up her hands in revulsion.  Dorian hadn’t lasted much longer, leaving Cullen and Bull standing side by side in the gloaming of the wings.  Before he had left them to it, Dorian had glanced sideways into Bull’s face.  It was impassive in the half-light, but then he had glanced at Dorian and smiled weakly, shrugging.  Dorian had smiled back, then mimed vomiting.  Bull had grinned and chuckled, turning his gaze back to the band on the stage.  Still, Dorian had felt as if Bull watched him as he left the wings for the green room.  

 

Their set had gone marginally better, but certainly not as good as either of the shows in Val Royeaux.  Perhaps it is the length of the tour, perhaps it is the thought of what they have ahead of them at Skyhold, but Dorian wrinkles his nose when he thinks back on it later that night, nestled under Bull’s arm in bed. 

“Felt that,” Bull mutters as the dawn light seeps under the blinds, “What’s up?”

 

“We weren’t exactly on fire tonight.  Just doing a little self-criticism.”

“It wasn’t you.  You were fine, even if you let the shittiness of the crowd affect you.  Cullen’s stressed and trying not to show it.  Cass is tired and bored.”  Bull yawns and hugs Dorian a little tighter for a moment, “It’s no biggie.  We all have off nights.”

 

“Not me.  I don’t  _ do _ off nights, a… Bull.”  Dorian’s eyes widen at the slip, and he purses his lips as if trying to suck the barely-stifled word back in.  They lay in silence for a while, and Dorian breathes a quiet sigh of relief that Bull hasn’t heard the slip.  He raises a hand to his mouth as he yawns, and closes his eyes.   It is there, in the dark under his eyelids that he tells Bull, “Well, early start tomorrow for Verchiel.  Better get some sleep, I suppose.”

But he doesn’t move, makes no attempt to leave.  They lie together for a little while longer, and Dorian is lulled by the warmth of Bull’s body.  He floats in semi-consciousness, crossing the dim mindscape between sleep and wake.  In this state, he thinks he hears Bull say, “Please stay, kadan.”  And because half of his mind is convinced it is only a dream, he tells Bull, “Where else would I go?”

 

-|||-

 

They roll into the outskirts of Verchiel at about two in the afternoon.  Traffic is light, and they have made good time.  From the window of the bus, Dorian can see the beginnings of the Frostback mountains in the distance, trailing along the blue horizon.  Without really thinking, he gets up from his seat and walks down the length of the bus.  He walks past Cullen, staring out the window, seemingly lost in thought; past Cassandra, chewing the end of a pen as she frowns into the mid-distance, then scribbling into a notebook on her lap.  A strange feeling has coiled in his stomach at the sight of those mountains - unease, perhaps; a fear of the unknown.  So it seems he seeks safe harbour, and it seems Bull knows that, as all he does is stretch out his arm, without taking his eyes from the book in front of him.  It’s a slim volume, and as Dorian sits, still with that unease curled within him, Bull wraps the arm around his shoulders and says, “Listen to this:

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody's asleep.

I say, I know that you're there,

so don't be

sad.

then I put him back,

but he's singing a little

in there, I haven't quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact

and it's nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don't

weep, do

you?”

 

Bull’s voice hitches on the question, and Dorian twists his head back to look.  Perhaps he shouldn’t, perhaps it is too personal, too private, but Bull looks down at him then, and his eyes are wet.  He shrugs and swallows, clears his throat, and folds the hand holding the book open over to wipe at his eyes with the back of his wrist.  Dorian takes a deep breath.  He means to tell Bull that he loves him, that it is alright, he is getting there, but all that comes out is, “I didn’t know you liked poetry.”

 

“Yeah.  I do.  I like it a lot.  Well, some of it.”  Bull sighs, “This guy.  Broke-ass Marcher drunkard, not much good to anyone except he could write like you heard the voices in your dreams all speak to you at once.  Like he knew exactly what you were thinking.”  He grins suddenly, and says, “That one’s one of my favourites.”

“You know, I’d never heard it before.  I never really liked poetry that much.”  Dorian frowns, then continues quickly, in case Bull thinks he is being purposely boorish, “But for some reason, this line I heard or read once has always stuck with me:  _ I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself _ .”  

 

Bull grunts, then frowns, shaking his head.  “Dunno what that’s from.”

“A pity, because neither do I,”  Dorian looks at Bull and smiles softly.  He blinks twice, then sits up a little straighter.  “Bull…”

Bull looks away from the book, which he has begun to peruse again.  He closes it, putting it down on the seat beside him to say, “Yeah?”

Dorian licks his lips and lowers his voice, “I’m a little worried about Cullen.  And Cassandra.”

Bull nods, slowly, then breathes in.  “Yeah.  Me too.”  He shifts, wrapping his arm more comfortably around Dorian’s chest.  “We all had our share of shit on this tour, huh?  I dunno how either of those things are gonna go down.  Cass and Lily parted on real bad terms; neither of them has a lot of forgiveness in their nature, but I can’t imagine either going for a big sabotage act.  Cass’ll withdraw, maybe, but I don’t think we’ve got much to worry about.  Cullen… y’know… it might be a good thing, if this ends in confrontation.  Before we get to Skyhold.”  Dorian feels Bull look down, at the top of his head and then Bull asks him, his voice even lower, “How much do you know about them?  Him and Lee?”

 

“Enough.  I know… some… of what happened when they were younger.  Not details, but…”  Dorian casts a worried look down the bus toward Cullen, “Enough.”

Bull nods.  “So, if the shit hits the fan, either at Verchiel or Skyhold, it’ll go one of two ways; Cullen will either be forced to hang on tighter to this ideal he has of Lee, this image he’s been carrying around of him for years.  Or he’ll be forced to let go.  Either way, it’s not gonna be pretty.”

 

Dorian only nods.  They sit that way in silence for a few moments, then Bull asks, still quietly,   “You remember when we were rolling into Val Royeaux, and I said I know what it feels like to feel abandoned?  I think we can all relate to that.”  He sighs, then continues, “It took me a long time to believe, really believe, that I was worthy, that I could do it on my own.”  He laughs a little,  “You know, you can get your head around it, but it takes longer to really believe it, in your heart.  I mean, Lies was like a family to me, or at least what I imagine a family to be like.  We were best friends.  And they still kicked me out because they couldn’t reconcile who I am with their ideals.”  Bull looks away for a moment, clenches his jaw, then snorts.  “And you know, I’m still not over it.  I don’t think I ever will be.  But…” and here he sighs, “It’s not so bad.  I can live with it.  It makes me stronger, I guess.  But I dunno… I wanna be strong for something, for someone.  Nobody wants to be alone.”

 

Dorian nods.  “Still,” he says, without looking at Bull.  “That feeling, of having the rug pulled out from under you, the feeling that the people you thought you could trust, really aren’t that trustworthy at all...”  He harrumphs to clear the lump in his throat and smiles to cover his awkwardness.  “Terrifying.  That by reaching for… love, or friendship, some semblance of warmth of feeling, you also expose yourself to the hell of vulnerability, of bringing other people’s shit into your life.”  He sighs, then continues, “I don’t know what the future will bring - I mean, how could I, I left my crystal ball back home.”

 

A moments silence.  Then Bull, his expression rather inscrutable, asks, “Back home?  In Tevinter, you mean?”

Dorian frowns, nodding.  Despite everything that’s happened, he still considers Tevinter home; still finds the ways of the South strange in many respects, and Maker, what he wouldn’t do for a summer that saw dry heat and stone-fruit, parched lake-shores and ripening olives.  “It’ll always be my home, I suppose.  Don’t you feel the same way about…” he realises he has no idea where Bull comes from originally, and pauses, before whirling his hand in the air and asking, “Wherever it is that you called home once?”

 

“Actually, no.  I haven’t lived any one place properly for a long time.  Home is the road now, I guess.  You’ve been in touring bands for a long time too - Tempus was… what? Four years?  Five?”

“Seven, from inception…”

Bull shrugs.  “There you go.  Maybe you don’t feel the same, but I never felt so much at home as I do on a tour bus or a hotel room.  It’s people, I guess.  People are the element that makes a place home.”  He looks at Dorian and his face softens.  “Maybe that’s just me.”

 

“No.  No, I see where you’re coming from.”  He turns slightly, putting his head against Bull’s chest, and curling his fingers into Bull’s.  He rests there for a moment, sighing, then glances up.  “Will you read to me some more, please?  I like the sound of your voice.”

Bull smiles down at him, and says, “Sure thing.”

 

-|||-

 

The poster is black and red.  Dorian studies it for a long time, just staring at the image as he waits for Cassandra to return from the little Antivan café on the other side of the road.  It’s his fault, having to wait outside in the chill mountain air - he can’t abide the smell of the place, though he knows the food will be a delightful change from everything else they’ve eaten on tour.  The poster has been pasted up next to one of the huge Skyhold advertisements, fetching mountain scenery in purple and white, which he had grinned at when he’d seen the words Thrown from the Breach on.  But the Red Dogs of Violent Death poster has an undercurrent of such seething malice about it that it makes for a disquieting juxtaposition.  The image is of a woman, staring out at the viewer, a strange rune painted onto the exposed part of her chest.  Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders.  Her mouth is covered by an empty space, the words  _ Ancient Evil/Redemption Music/Crystalline Touring  _ preceding the name of the band upon it.  It is the eyes that Dorian finds peculiarly haunting, and he is somewhat lost to it when he hears a gruff voice he does not recognise behind him.

 

“Like it, huh?” The man strides toward him, worn-looking, but somehow vital.  His khaki jacket flaps in the light wind, the faded black t-shirt fluttering up slightly, revealing a studded belt through the loops of faded black jeans.  Dorian frowns and shrugs, then asks, “Do I know you?”

“Nah, probably not.”

“You look… familiar, that’s all.”

“Yeah, s’pose I might, at that.”  The man grins, but declines to introduce himself.  He looks at Dorian as he tucks a strand of his long, unkempt black hair over his ear.  Internally, Dorian sighs and wonders at Southern manners, or lack thereof as he puts out his hand and tells the man his name.  The man takes his hand, and they shake. “Yeah, I know,” the man says, and then steps toward Dorian slightly, not letting go of his hand as he does, tightening his grip very slightly.  He looks at Dorian, his expression interested, thoughtful.  His eyes are terribly bloodshot, Dorian sees, and the man tilts his head slightly, still smiling, then mutters, “Lee Samson.”

 

“Oh.  Ah…” Lee still has not let go of his hand, is still in fact smiling at him as Dorian blinks and tries to untie his tongue.  Finally, he manages to smile back, arch his eyebrow and tell Lee, “Nice to meet you.  I’ve heard ever so much about you already.”

“Have you now?  All nice stuff?”  Samson laughs, then lets go of Dorian’s hand to rub his own hands together.  They make a dry sound on the quiet street.  Dorian smiles widely, never letting it reach his eyes.  He can feel the Fade just under his fingertips, there as if in readiness.  “No,” he says, then looks at his fingernails as if he is very bored.  Then he drops both his hand and the smile to say, “Not very nice things at all.”

 

“Aw, that’s a pity.”  Lee shoves his hands into his pockets and says vaguely, “Can’t trust a man who’ll not call you out to your face.”  He looks down for a moment, as if in thought.  Then he tells Dorian in a disinterested tone of voice, “Your fist is glowing, honeybunch.”  Lee pauses, frowning as if he is confused, and then tells Dorian softly, “I ain’t gonna hurt you.  Just wanted to talk.”

“Did you now?  Well, that’s a fascinating concept.  And what, exactly, did you want to talk to little old me for?”

 

Lee shrugs.  Dorian sees that he was mistaken - Lee’s eyes are not bloodshot, they are  _ red _ .  He raises his chin, then rolls his eyes impatiently at Lee.  “Come on, out with it.”

“Yeah, alright.  Andraste, they never teach you manners or something?  Just wanted to ask how Len’s doing, that’s all.”

Dorian bristles.  “Cullen, you mean.  Please don’t insinuate that the two of you are on any kind of friendly terms.  It’s really rather desperate.  And if you cared so much, then why have you never asked him yourself?”

 

“You ever try to talk to Len when he’s not wanting to talk to you?”  Lee asks, then glances away.  “Aw, fuck this.  I’ll see you at Skyhold, I guess.”  And with that, he turns on his heel and stalks off, hurrying away down the cobbled street.  Dorian frowns after him, then lets out the breath that he hadn’t realised he was holding.  He is so intent on watching Lee’s retreating back that he lurches a little when Cassandra asks, “Who was that?”

 

Dorian hesitates, still watching Lee.  Then he turns to Cassandra and shrugs.  “Lee Samson.”

“What?”  Cassandra’s eyes widen, and Dorian notes that her whole posture goes tense as she whips her head to the side, to follow the line of Dorian’s gaze.  “What did he say, what did…”

“Cassandra, don’t, please.  He… was odd.  Certainly odd, but… not threatening or anything like that.  He asked after Cullen, that was really all.”  Dorian pauses, then looks at her, scruitinising her expression.  “Do you think I should tell him?”

“No,” Cassandra says immediately, “Definitely not.”

“But… why?”

“Because I don’t want a repeat of Denerim.  Because we don’t need him more distracted than he already is.  Because he’s lashed out at you before, and I don’t think any of us want a repeat of that.  Need any more reasons?”

Dorian is silent.  Cassandra takes a deep breath, seems to consider that Dorian’s silence means the end of the matter, and begins walking.  The plastic bag with the take out boxes in it rattles in the wind, and Dorian smells the waft of sweet spices, capsicum, honey-roasted meats and fresh bread from within.  His stomach growls.  Then he frowns a little and says quietly, “If I were Cullen, I’d want to know.”

 

Cassandra shakes her head and huffs, then looks at him.  “Really?  So if Cullen met, say, your father on the street, and had had a little talk with him, you’d want to know?  It wouldn’t put you off your dinner, put you off your game for a performance?”

Dorian pauses, then squares his shoulders to reply, “No.  Not at all.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and tells him, “When you’ve got an idea in your head, you are every bit as attractive to deal with as a wild bear.  I wish I could punch you, some days.”

“Oh Cass, such affection.  I love you too, darling.”

She snorts.  There is a short pause, and then she looks at him briefly and shakes her head.  “Up to you.  It’s not my funeral.”

“Such trust!  Such enthusiasm!  Such…”

“Oh, shut it, Tevinter.”  Her tone is affectionate, and he glances at her and sees her smile.  “Lets get this back before it gets cold.”

 

-|||-

 

Cullen laughs, pushes the take-out box away from himself and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.  Bull asks, through a mouthful of rice, “You gonna eat that?”

“Be my guest,” Cullen sighs, and pats his stomach.  “That was awesome.  I love Antivan food.”

“You said you hated Antivan food,”  Cassandra raises an eyebrow.  “We had to vote you out to get this…”

“I know it’s scary, Cullen.  That new feeling in your mouth?  That’s a thing the rest of Thedas calls   _ flavour _ ,” Dorian tells him, poking at the remnants of the chicken.  He’s really too full to eat any more, but it was just so delicious, despite the old-deepfryer stink of the place.  “Or rather, the flavour is of actual food, rather than of ignorance and indifference.”

 

Cullen laughs, “What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing I haven’t said before.  But I suppose I  _ could _ be more succinct.  Fereldan food tastes of dirty gym socks and smells  _ worse _ .”

Bull laughs at this, then proceeds to choke on his mouthful.  Cullen thumps him on on the back repeatedly, until Bull flaps a hand at him and swallows.  “Ugh, fuck.  Thanks man.”

 

Dorian sighs quietly.  He’s been mulling over his conversation with Samson, and he really cannot see any benefit to keeping Cullen in the dark about it, despite what Cassandra might say.  So, instead of thinking further, he looks up at Cullen and says, “I saw Lee when we were out.”

 

The room goes still.  In the moments of silence which ensue, Dorian watches Cullen’s face as the expression cycles rapidly through several emotions; shock, fear, anger.  Then, quietly, Cullen asks, “How did he look?”

Dorian shrugs, “Older.  Relatively cheerful.”  He frowns, notes the concern now on Cullen’s face and tells him, “He didn’t look sick.  He looked… fine.  Healthwise.”

Cullen purses his lips and looks down at the table.  He almost seems to shrink into the seat, raising a hand to his mouth and chewing for a moment on the thumbnail.  “Did he say anything to you?”

 

Dorian nods.  “I was looking at one of their posters while we waited for the food.  He came over, introduced himself, and asked how you were…”

“What did you say?” Cullen asks.  His voice is eager, nervous almost, and Dorian’s heart sinks a little at the sound of it.  “I told him he had no right to ask me, if he wouldn’t ask you himself.”

Cullen hisses out a breath, and looks at Dorian closely.  Bull is watching Cullen, Dorian notices, that impassive look on his face, but the set of his shoulders is tense.  Finally, Cullen mutters, “Maker’s Breath, Dorian.  Don’t leave me in suspense. What did he say to that?”

 

Dorian sighs.  “He asked me if I’d ever tried to tell you anything when you didn’t want to hear it, then he said, and I quote,  _ fuck this, I’ll see you at Skyhold _ .”  Dorian rolls his eyes, “He’s a  _ real _ charmer.”

 

The room is silent.  Dorian looks at Cullen, who is even paler than usual, then to Cassandra.  She glances at him and shrugs, almost as if to say  _ you’ve done it now _ , and with that, Cullen claps a hand over his mouth and bolts from the table.  His chair falls over backwards with a crash, and he runs from the room, then the next thing they hear is the sound of him retching.  Cassandra sighs and shakes her head, frowning at Dorian, before she rises as well, and follows Cullen into the bathroom.  They hear her tell him, softly “Cullen, Cullen, I’m here…” before she closes the door and the noise is muffled.

 

Bull puts one elbow on the table and leans onto his hand.  He looks steadily across the table at Dorian, his expression interested, and Dorian exhales.  “Don’t say anything.”

“Wasn’t gonna.  Just lookin’.”

“Well you can stop.”  Dorian huffs, “I didn’t know… I didn’t realise it would have quite that effect.”

Bull says nothing, just raises an eyebrow very slightly.  Dorian frowns at him, allowing the silence to stretch.  Finally, he sighs.  “That was disingenuous of me, wasn’t it?”  He rubs a hand over his brow and mimics Bull’s gesture, putting the elbow up on the table and leaning his chin into it. “I’m an idiot.”

 

“Nah.  Well…” Bull smiles as he reconsiders, “You’re a little tactless, and yeah, disingenuous is about right.  You knew what you were doing.  But for the record, I think you were right to tell him.”  

“You don’t think it’s going to ruin everything?  Starting with the concert tonight?”

Bull shrugs a little and looks away.  Then he looks back at Dorian and tells him, “Guys like Cullen, in my experience, they often need a little push to come out fighting.  Fighting’s where we want him.  This stalemate, this tension, it couldn’t have lasted forever, not with him and Lee in such close proximity.  He’ll come out of that bathroom ready to fight or die tryin’, and that’s exactly the kind of performance we need.”  

 

Dorian shakes his head, unable to believe it.  He wonders at his own obviously horribly inaccurate read on the situation, wonders how he could ever have had the temerity to call Cullen his friend, when he clearly has no regard for his feelings or ability to read his emotions.   _ He was dreading this, _ Dorian rages internally, frowning and biting his lip,  _ He was dreading this and you basically just told him ‘the boogieman’s in the closet! now close your eyes and act like everything’s normal!’  Oh Pavus, you are such an epic shit. _  He glances up, catches Bull looking at him.  “Hey,” Bull tells him softly, “Don’t be so hard on yourself, huh?  You’ll see…”

 

And with that, the bathroom door opens and Cullen emerges.  He smiles weakly at Dorian and says, “Hey.  Sorry about that.”

Dorian shakes his head, “No, no need to apologise.  If anything, it was…”

“No way.”  Cullen swallows and frowns.  Cassandra leans against the door jamb, her arms crossed over her chest and gives Dorian a smile from behind Cullen’s back.  She looks almost smug, and Dorian cannot help his frown.  “No,” Cullen repeats, “No apologies. You did the right thing, I’m glad that I know.”  His nostrils flare slightly, and he looks down and shakes his head.  “I’ve spent so long avoiding Lee that it was doing my head in, wondering what would happen if, when, we saw each other again.  What a total waste of energy.”  He looks at Dorian and sneers, “You know, fuck him.  Fuck him, and fuck that whole band, and fuck White Chant too.  That’s not me.  That’s not who I am.  I’m the bass player for Thrown from the Breach, and those bastards can all go fuck themselves.”

 

Cassandra laughs, and starts to applaud.  After a moment, Bull and Dorian join her.  Then Bull stands, turning as he does, and steps over to Cullen, wrapping his huge arms around him.  “Aw, Culls, you big idiot,” he croons as Cullen laughs, a little drunkenly, “That’s music to my ears.”

“Music to all our ears,” Cassandra says, and she walks over to Cullen and wraps her arms around his waist.  

Cullen laughs again, then raises one hand from Bull’s ribs and beckons to Dorian.  Dorian smiles and rises, skirting the table.  “Room for one more?” he asks, and Bull raises his arm in answer.  Dorian ducks underneath it, and smiles into the warm half-light between their bodies, the bodies of  _ his band _ , as Cullen repeats softly, “Fuck them all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes for this chapter:  
> \- The poem that Bull reads Dorian is called 'Bluebird', and it's by Charles Bukowski, from his collection _The Last Night of the Earth_. It's a slightly flubbed version of that poem (ie, not the full one), but I figured that would be okay for the purposes of this story. You can find the full version of the poem [here](http://allpoetry.com/poem/8509539-Bluebird-by-Charles-Bukowski)  
>  \- The line of poetry that Dorian remembers is called 'Self-Pity' by D.H. Lawrence (and for goodness sake, Dorian, it's like, four lines! You couldn't remember four lines?!)  
> \- There is actually a poster for the RDVD tour, you can find it on my tumblr if you so desire. It's [here](http://littlexabyss.tumblr.com/search/red+dogs+of+violent+death). The woman in the photograph, in case you're interested, is Leila Waddell, a muse of Aleister Crowley's. She went by the name Laylah, and is written of many times in the course of 'The Book of Lies', one of Crowley's chief publications.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull and Dorian go for a walk and meet some Bees!. Dorian drinks alone, and gets a few stern talkings to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I can't think of any new tags, but...  
> New characters: Sera, Dagna, Ataash Adaar (Male Warrior Adaar)

* * *

“Where did you go?  Where did you run? / I can’t erase what you’ve done / Let’s burn the past, forget the truth / I’m still more than him, I’m still loving you.”

_ Ten Tonne Skeleton _ , Royal Blood ( _ Royal Blood _ , 2014)

* * *

 

There is still snow on the caps of the mountains, but in the city of Haven, the air is warm.  Dorian sighs, wondering if this is how coming home should feel.  Right.  Calm.  He is set on ignoring the vague feeling of disquiet which has persisted ever since he’d seen the Frostback mountains, when they were still outside of Verchiel, when Bull had read that poem to him.  So, to engage his mind in other things, he slides his arm through Bull’s as they walk along the street together.  Nobody looks at them.  There are no screams of outrage, and the shade of his father does not rear up out of the earth to condemn him to a lifetime of torment.  He relaxes slightly, Bull’s arm warm on his, and then whips his arm out of the crook at Bull’s elbow as he hears a shout behind them.

 

“Oi!  What the fuckin’ fuck, it’s Bull!”  A blonde elf bounces up to them, wearing denim cut-off shorts with a grubby yellow t-shirt.  There are dirty-white Keds on her feet, and her calves and forearms are a mass of tattoos.  Dorian reads, written on the t-shirt in black marker  _ riots not diets _ , and instantly, he knows who this is.  The elf grabs Bull roughly around the waist, pulling him into a hug.  Bull laughs. 

“Sera!  Shit, you’re looking good!”

“Yeah, I know. Success suits me, yeah?”  She smirks, and leans toward him confidentially, “S’all the sex I’m havin’, innit?”

 

Bull and Dorian both laugh, and Dorian looks at the dwarf who has sidled up behind Sera.  She smiles at him, waving cheerily.  Her red hair is pulled back into a sleek pony-tail, bangs curled up, pompadour style, and there is a bright yellow lily pinned into her hair.  She curtsies to him, the full skirt of her dress riding up slightly to reveal a bright yellow petticoat.  Dorian smiles back as he bows to her, lifting his eyebrows.  “Sera and Dagna, from Bees!Bees!Bees!” He rises and sticks his hand out, “Dorian Pavus, Thrown…”

 

“Yeah, yeah, we know who you are,” Sera sniffs, shaking his outstretched hand by the fingers like it might have some communicable disease.  “You’re a magey mage-tits, right?”

“Sera,” Dagna says, shaking her head, “He’s a person. Do it properly.”

Sera flips the length of hair off the side of her face with a sigh.  Dorian arches an eyebrow when she grabs his hand again, and pumps it up and down fiercely three times.  Then she drops it and asks Dagna, “Happy, Widdle?”

 

“Happier,” she tells Sera, and smiles up at Dorian.  “Hi!  It’s nice to meet you, Dorian.  I was really hoping we’d bump into you around Skyhold.”  She shakes his hand enthusiastically, then looks at Bull, shading her eyes against the summer sunshine, “And here, I got my wish a day earlier!  Phew!”  She grins, “A girl could really get a neck-crick lookin’ at you!”

Bull laughs and crouches down before her.  Dagna’s grin broadens, and she punches him on the arm lightly.  “Aw, thanks.  You’re a good sort.  You wanna come for a drink with us?”

 

Bull laughs, “Fuck yeah.  But we gotta go get some shit done, down at Inquisition. You two been into the offices yet?”

Sera rolls her eyes, “Yeah.  They’re lookin’ swanky as shit now!  I dunno if ‘Taash has just been doin’ some interior decoratin’ or what.” She sniffs, “I liked ‘em better grungy and fulla holes.”  Then she looks at Bull slyly and asks him, “Gonna take current to meet former?  That’s a fuckin’ dangerous road, innit?  I mean, I know you ‘n’ ‘Taash are still friends, but…”  

 

She tapers off, cuts her eyes at Dorian, who looks confusedly at Bull.  If Sera is suggesting what he thinks she is, then that would make the head of Inquisition Records an ex of Bull’s.  Surely Bull would have told him that?  Mind you, it’s not as if he’s confessed his exes to Bull either, not that there are many who were worth confessing, or that he cared enough about to dredge up into the light of day again. 

Bull grins sheepishly, then says quietly, “Yeah, we’re friends.  ‘Taash and I go way back, Sez.”  He shrugs, “Plus the guy is our boss, right?  Can’t make it weird before it turns out that way.”

 

Dorian frowns at Bull, trying to will him to reveal more about this former relationship without directly asking.  After waiting for Bull to fill the silence, Dorian can hold his question no longer.

“Who  _ is _ ‘Taash?  It sounds like there’s a story there.”  Nobody seems willing to continue this thought, so Dorian states, “And if the Inquisition offices could be improved, it surely wouldn’t be a bad thing…”

 

Sera makes a face at this, then rummages in her pocket.  “Hang on, I know it’s… yeah!”  And she pulls out a cookie, fat with oats and raisins.  “Here,” she says to Dorian, “Eat that.  Maybe it’ll shut your pretty mouth up for a bit while the big kids are talkin’.”

Bull frowns and pokes her, then shakes his head.  “What?” she asks, throwing her hands wide and frowning back at him, “I don’t have to be nice to the snooty fucker!  You’re the one doin’ him!”

 

Bull raises an eyebrow and Sera shrugs and looks away. She doesn’t seem chagrinned in the slightest, and Dorian snickers, and puts his hand on Bull’s shoulder, trying to tell him that it’s alright, it’s what he was expecting. Although he sometimes hates that people know he is from money, he cannot avoid it, especially when being on the come up still carries such cachet in the rock world.  Not that he is about to tell anyone how he feels, of course.  Something Krem had said, some off-hand comment recurs to him now -  _ entitlement is what guys like you do best _ .  He scrunches his mouth up. Dagna looks up at him, smiling a little confusedly.  

“‘Taash is Ataash Adaar, the owner of Inquisition?  Didn’t you meet him when you signed on?”

“No,” Dorian shakes his head.  Then he looks at the cookie and asks, “What kind is it?”

 

Sera shrugs.  “Won’t know until you taste it.”

Maker.  Really?   _ It’s been in her pocket for who knows how long! _ his mind gibbers,  _ Who knows what it’s made out of _ ! But it’s just a cookie, or it certainly looks like one, so he takes a deep breath, then takes a bite.  And it  _ is _ delicious, a slight crunch, tender in the middle, chewy oats, the sweet burst of raisins and cinnamon.  Something in his expression must change, because Sera smirks at him and tells him, “You were worried I’d put shit in it, weren’t ya?  Sorry to dissapointcha, Magetits.”

 

“Hey, so, now you’ve finished traumatising Dorian,” Bull chuckles, rising with a wince from where he is crouched in front of the two women, “We really gotta go.  But take a raincheck, huh?”

“Oh, shit yeah!  We gotta get some ice cream and beer again, that shit was large.”  Sera cackles, thumps Bull on the arm again.  Dagna smiles.

“It was so nice to meet you!  We’ll see you again, okay?  Oh!”  she says quickly, just as Sera is beginning to move.  “Karaoke!”

 

“Karaoke?” Bull asks, and frowns at Sera.  

“Yeah,” she shrugs, “Gw’on, Widdle.  You bought it up.”

“We’re going to do karaoke tonight!”  Dagna tells them excitedly, “Down at the Singing Maiden!  There are a couple of pre-shows and stuff, RDVD and Templar Babies and that lot down at the Trebuchet, and dreadwolf is doing a…” she makes air-quotes around the words, “‘secret show’ at the Gatehouse.  Viktoria the divine is doing an acoustic set, I think, but I can’t remember where.  So it’s a big night, but we’re saying fuck it, let’s go get drunk and sing other people’s songs.  What do you say?”

Bull laughs, and asks, “Okay if we bring the others?”

 

Dagna nods, and says, “Oh yeah!  It’s not our thing.  We just wanted to get trashed and muck about.  It’d be cool to see whoever there.”

“C’mon, Widdle,”  Sera says, slinging an arm around Dagna’s shoulders.  “Better let these boys get off to wherever they’re off to.”  She laughs out loud and points at Bull, “Not that kind of  _ get off _ , ya filthy bastard!”  She laughs again, and looks at Dorian, her eyes narrowing.  She rummages in her pocket again and holds out another cookie.  “Here.  Looks like you’re gonna need to keep your strength up.”

 

He snorts and accepts it, his mouth still full.  He leans over, pulls out Bull’s pocket and drops the cookie in, then pats it.  After he has swallowed the mouthful, he grins and tells Sera, “Thank you. I’ll save it for after.”

She guffaws, and wrinkles her nose.  “Ew. C’mon, Widdle.  I wanna go see if we can find dreadwolf’s hotel.”  She grins and asks, “Anyone know where I can get, say, fifteen lizards?”

  
  


The Inquisition offices are open, and they have indeed been through something of a makeover since Dorian was last there for his audition.  That seems so long ago; Haven had still been in the grip of winter then, slate grey sky and howling winds, snow in the freezing air.  But now, the sky overhead is a uniform cobalt, and the sun beats down with enough strength to make Dorian glad of the air conditioning as they enter.  “Hey, Jim,” Bull says to the young man sitting behind the desk, who grins.  

“Bull!  And Dorian!  How’s the tour?”

“Still goin’.  The boss in?”

“Hey hey!  Look who the cat dragged in!” comes a booming voice from the corridor opposite, and a qunari lopes around the entrance, arms held wide.  “It’s one of my favourite drummers.  How you doin’, big guy?”

 

The other qunari is shorter and slighter than Bull, but only just.  He pushes a few strands of white hair back from his forehead, where they have come loose from the intricate knot.  The other qunari is dressed casually, his plain white shirt sleeves wound back to reveal an elaborate series of geometric tattoos in dark reds and blacks, the lines covering all the flesh visible.  His blue jeans are neat, though Dorian shudders at the sandals and frankly appalling state of his toenails.  He grins, bright red eyes on Bull, holds his arms out to him.  

 

Dorian lowers his head slightly, feeling very small beside the two of them, as Bull embraces the other man, laughing a little.  After much slapping of backs, the two of them part, and the qunari looks at Dorian and sticks out his hand.  

“Dorian Pavus, you’re a sight for sore eyes.  I can’t believe we haven’t met yet.  I’m Ataash Adaar.  Fuck, dude, I can’t wait to see you play at Skyhold.  You play like you were born with a guitar in your hand.”  He is still pumping Dorian’s hand up and down, then seems to realise that he’s not coming off very professionally and stops, grinning sheepishly.  “Ha.  Um.  So.  Come on down to studio one, if you want.”  He grins at Bull, “Got something I wanna show you.”

 

He turns abruptly and strides off, down the corridor.  It’s  _ much _ nicer than when Dorian was last here. The place has been completely re-done, all in bright white and green, nothing of the vomit-coloured chipped paint is left at all.  

“Hey, Gatsi,” Ataash says to a dwarf coming out of one of the rooms, a huge folder in his hands.  

“‘Taash,” Gatsi mutters, “Got proofs for you, three options, like you said.  For the record, I still fuckin’ hate that orange.  Still on for Thursday?”

“Hell yeah.  Just drop ‘em in with Kandy, huh?  She’s gotta approve them first.  I’m just the rubber stamp, bro.”

Gatsi laughs, and hurries off.  Ataash sighs and shrugs, “Artwork for the  _ Horses _ tour, y’know.  Their album  _ WitchWood _ just took off.”  He shoots one fist through the air, makes a  _ phiiisssst! _ noise from between his teeth.  Then he laughs and shrugs, “Not bad for a little pick up band from the arse-end of Fereldan.”

 

“Do you have to approve everything?” Dorian asks Ataash, then cocks his head, “That seems onerous.”

Ataash shrugs, and pushes a door open.  “Onerous doesn’t begin to cover it,” he sighs, and they enter a large studio mixing room.  “What do you think?  Good enough to eat or what?”

“Shit, ‘Taash.  This is awesome!”  Bull grins and claps Ataash on the shoulder.  

Ataash chuckles and rubs his hands together, “I know!  I fuckin’ can’t wait to record on this thing.”

 

“You mean… it’s not been used?”  Dorian asks. There is a distinct smell of plastic to the room, and parts of the soundboard still have a thin film stuck to them, he sees.

“We only got it installed yesterday.”  Ataash runs a hand over the board, and sighs.  He leans against the edge of it, and looks at Dorian, smiling slightly as he folds his arms.  “I really wanna do something crazy and special on the first go with this puppy.”

 

Bull frowns, and strokes his chin, considering.  “Well…” he says, then looks at Ataash, “Y’know, we saw Sera and Dagna from Bees! on our way here.  They were gonna go do karaoke tonight, in some bar.  We could maybe come here, if they want, and have a jam?  You could record it, in case there’s anything decent?”

Ataash’s mouth drops open.  “Fuck yes,” he breathes, “Fuck yes, yes, great idea.”  He gets up, rising from the edge of the desk and opening his arms, beginning to stride around the room, rubbing his hands together.  “Oh man, that’s a fuckin’ great idea.  Dorian, would you be up for that?”

 

Dorian wrinkles his nose.  He exhales sharply - he doesn’t really want to be a killjoy, especially not when it is Bull’s idea and Ataash is so enthusiastic, but… He doesn’t want to.  Karaoke is one thing, but actually recording outputs?  No, thank you very much.  He cannot explain it though, not without feeling rather silly, so he chooses to appear bored rather than uncomfortable.

“I… really just wanted to get messy with Bees!.  That sounded fun.  This… sounds a little too much like work.”

 

“We’ll get messy,” Ataash says promptly, and smiles, “C’mon, can’t have fun on an empty stomach.”

Dorian looks at Bull.  Bull is looking directly at him, a strange, elliptical expression on his face - perhaps irritation, perhaps confusion.  If he could only explain himself better, without referencing how the disquiet which has plagued him is growing, forming a hard knot around his lungs, constricting his heart.  But of course he can’t, so he takes a breath and shrugs, “Okay, I suppose.”

 

“Aw, hey,” Bull says gently, and puts a hand on his shoulder, “We don’t have to do anything.  But we got a three day rest ahead of us, just kickin’ it at Skyhold, and I just thought…”

“Ugh, yes, yes, okay, what did you want?”  Dorian huffs and folds his arms.  There is a part of his mind which cannot believe his mouth as it tells Bull, “I’m sorry if I didn’t break out my pompoms and short skirt and scream ‘raaaaaay, Bull!’, but I’m actually fucking tired.  All I want to do is get drunk and talk shit.  Preferably without any other members of Thrown around.”  

 

And Maker, he realises how that sounds - that he doesn’t want to be around Bull.   _ What are you doing? _ he asks himself, mortified at the outburst, surprised by the vehemence behind his words, the vehemence he  _ feels _ , suddenly and surely.  Bull looks at him still, his mouth open a little bit, and then reaches out a hand towards him.  Dorian quickly steps away a little, just out of reach, and Bull frowns slightly, looking worried.  

“Erm…” Ataash says, and rubs his tattooed forearm.  “Hey, so I can just…”  He looks between them, and begins to sidle out of the room when Bull says, “No.”  

 

Ataash stops, looking awkward.  Bull looks at Dorian steadily, and tells him, “Look, you can do what you want.  I get that you’re tired.  But I’m gonna do this.  We’re not joined at the hip; as long as you’re safe, I don’t mind what you do.  Okay?”

“Fine,” Dorian tells him, but stands his ground, arms still folded.  He tilts his head slightly, still looking at Bull; though his face is arrogant, inside he cannot believe what he has just said.   _ Surely there was a more tactful way of saying that, you idiot _ , he thinks, remembering the feeling of waking in Bull’s arms, the leisurely stroll through Haven in the morning sunshine.  Hard on the heels of that, he thinks,  _ nothing good ever lasts, you fuck everything up eventually, Pavus.  You just push and push until there’s nothing left to push on. _  He swallows suddenly, then Bull looks at Ataash and says, “So, tell me about this board, huh?”

 

Ataash smiles awkwardly, and then turns and runs his hand over the black matt plastic again.  He talks quickly, one hand on the board, the other gesticulating.  Dorian hears his voice, but is unable to take in what he is telling Bull; he merely watches, almost as if he is outside himself.  Ataash is lively, impassioned, and Dorian cannot help but like him a little bit.  There is something so vigourous, so damn  _ happy _ about him, and there it is, Dorian sees the attraction, sees how easily it could return for Bull.  He wonders bleakly what drove them apart, Bull and Ataash, whether it would matter in the face of a renewed association.   _ Couldn’t have been that serious, if they could remain friends _ , he thinks, and his heart sinks.  

 

Dorian turns slightly to watch Bull’s face as he looks at the other qunari.  The Vashoth.   _ Whatever _ , he thinks bitterly,  _ I can’t be expected to keep up with the distinctions _ .  He feels lost, cut out, cast adrift.  Ataash makes a sweeping motion with his hand, then flutters it down toward his chest and leans back, grinning, closing his eyes as he does, and Bull  _ laughs _ , it’s not a chuckle, it is a bellow, a real laugh, straight from the gut.  Dorian can’t remember ever provoking quite that reaction in Bull.  He watches for a moment longer, feeling the fragile thing in his chest begin to break, and then he turns and walks out of the studio.  He doubts if either of them notice.

 

-|||-

 

He doesn’t know where he goes after that.  He knows where he finds himself though; a divey bar at the back end of Haven’s central district, far away from the apartment complexes which house the newly-moneyed, just a few blocks up from where the run down tenement buildings begin.  He is trying to bury everything under a slew of cheap red wine, and failing miserably.  He hears laughter from a raucous table near the back, and then a man leans against the bar next to Dorian.

 

“‘Nother round, if you please, squire.”  The voice is rough, jovial, and strangely familiar.  Dorian cycles through his memories, but perhaps it is just an echo of an echo, because he cannot place the voice at all.   _ Who cares _ , he thinks,  _ who cares when there is wine to be drunk. _

 

The bartender grins and nods, goes about his work.  Dorian studies the bottom of his glass, sees the sediment collected there and practices thinking about nothing at all until the man next to him says, “Well.  Fancy seeing you again, and so soon.  Learnt any manners yet, Pavus?”

Dorian looks up, a trifle too quickly.  

“Oh.  You.”  He sighs, and Samson smiles when Dorian says, “Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any better.”

“Guess not then, about the manners.  Still a snarky little bitch.”  

“Oh,  _ fuck off _ , would you?  In case you haven’t noticed,” Dorian glares at Samson, and makes a circle around himself with one arm, “I’m drinking.  Alone.  Which is how I’d prefer it to stay, as charming as your company may be.”

 

Samson snickers and grins at the bartender, who nods as he slides the money Samson hands him across the bar, makes his way to the register on the other end  He turns slightly, hands loosely curled around the handles of the pitchers of beer, and studies Dorian for a moment, still smiling slightly.  Then the smile fades and he leans closer to Dorian.  Dorian can smell beer on his breath, and something else, something sweet and cloying and entirely unpleasant; it seems to make his own head swim, though that could be the wine.  Surely.  Wrinkling his nose, he notes how weirdly hot Samson is; his skin radiates an unnatural warmth that almost seems to pulse.

“You might wanna find somewhere else to drink, if you’re gonna do it alone.  Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but this is not the place for you.  It ain’t gonna come from me, Maker knows I don’t have a problem with you, but the guys I’m with…”  Samson shakes his head, and Dorian sees the smile is gone, replaced instead with a look of vague concern.  Samson cuts his eyes over Dorian’s shoulder and mutters, “Let’s just say they ain’t known for their wonderfully tolerant viewpoints, yeah?”

 

Dorian sneers, blows a disgusted breath through his nose.  “I’m not scared of you.  Any of you.”

“That I do not doubt.  One-on-one, you’d probably put up a good fight, if the circumstances were right.  And how you use the information I just gave you’s entirely up to you.  By all means, sit here.  Drink alone.  I ain’t really in a position to do favours for any more of your kind; already got a rep for a bit of a sympathiser.”  

Samson pauses, looks a little saddened for half a moment, then resumes, “But so’s you know, the guys I’m with don’t fight fair.  They ain’t gonna take you one-on-one.  From what I heard, you already know the type - they’ll Smite you first, make sure you’re immobilised, then… that’ll be the end of your wonderful career.”  Samson shrugs, frowning. “But hey.  You do whatcha want.”  He grasps the handles of the pitchers more firmly and smiles at Dorian warmly, “See you ‘round, Pavus.”

 

He takes the pitchers, and circles around Dorian’s back, heading into the back of the bar, back to wherever he is sitting.  Dorian grinds his teeth together, then signals the bartender.  When he is approached, he lays a note on the bar and says, “One more, please.  Keep the change.”  

The bartender smiles, nods and pours him a fresh glass of wine, setting it gently on the bar before Dorian and removing the empty glass.  Dorian hears another volley of laughter from the table at the back - he wonders if Samson is telling the mysterious others about him, wonders if he was just trying to provoke a reaction, wanting to see him run scared.  

 

He forces himself to remain seated, but those words from Denerim keep circling back around, echoing and changing;  _ gonna teach him, teach him, gonna teach him magic was made to serve man, never to rule over him, you don’t rule here, you’re not even welcome, you’re never welcome, always pushing in where you’re not wanted. You’re not wanted, Pavus, but we’ll teach you, we can teach you all you needed to know.   _ He shudders slightly, takes the wineglass by the stem, meaning to sip it gently, but ends up swallowing mouthfuls, almost pouring it down his throat.  The stuff churns in his guts, the copperish, almost bloody taste of it both revolting and peculiarly satisfying.  

He takes a deep breath as he sets the wineglass down on the bar again, and has to close his eyes for a moment against his rising gorge.  The feeling of nausea passes, and when it does, he exhales slowly, then rises.  

  
  


The wind whips at Dorian’s light coat, and he clutches it more firmly around himself.  It is only noon, but despite so many people in Haven for Skyhold, the streets are still empty.  He’s not as drunk as he wants to be, so he sets his sights into the city centre, back toward the Inquisition offices.  Samson’s words, Bull’s words, echoes of each other, the sentiment all coming down to  _ selfish, selfish _ within Dorian’s mind as he walks, eyes downcast.  All he needs is another open bar, just somewhere where he can drink himself oblivious.  

 

He looks up sharply, thinking,  _ you won’t find it by looking at the ground _ , when he hears his name, being shouted from some distance.  He doesn’t recognise the voice at first, grimly takes his hands out of his pockets and clenches his fists, but continues walking, a little faster.  

“Dorian!  Wait!”  

 

There it is again, and he takes a deep breath, still ignoring the call.  He hears heavy footsteps, running behind him, and he turns slightly, preparing for an attack - it would seem that Samson’s little talk had made him nervous, and his hand flares with bright purple light.  Ataash takes a step back, his arm still outstretched as if he had meant to touch Dorian’s shoulder.  

“Whoa,” he says, his eyes on Dorian’s hand, “whoa, um.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

Dorian shakes his hand, disbursing the ambient magic.  “The only thing frightening about you,” he tells Ataash haughtily, “is your truly atrocious footwear.”  

Ataash grins and looks down at his sandals.  “I’m sorry,” he says again, and Dorian shrugs.  “Hey, where did you get to?  We thought you’d just gone to grab a coffee, maybe take a look at the space.  You never said.”  This last is uttered slightly accusingly, and Dorian lowers his chin.  

“Bull never said either.”

 

He doesn’t mean it to sound as defensive as it does.  Ataash looks confused, and Dorian sighs.  This big idiot seems nice enough, but also… also… everything he is not.  Casual.  Low maintenance.  Dorian almost feels a pain when he considers the contrast between this man and himself.  “Ataash,” he begins, “I fear it is I who owe you an apology.  Did you know Bull and I are…”

 

When Dorian hovers over how to define their relationship, Ataash’s confusion seems to grow.  He does not leap in with a word however, does not try to prompt Dorian, simply waits, hands by his sides, head cocked a little like a curious bird.  Eventually, Dorian says, “Did you know we’re... together?”

Ataash nods, seems to reflect for a second, then his face beams with a huge smile.  

“Hey.  Oh, hey.  Look.  Uh… can you come with me?  Do you want to come for a drink?  I think… maybe we need to have a talk.”

 

Dorian sighs.  It is what he had been on his way to do, and yet… he shakes his head, and then raises an eyebrow and smiles.  “Alright then.  Lead on, O Inquisitor.”

Ataash laughs, and beckons him to follow.

  
  


The little bar is situated down an alley, then down a narrow flight of stairs.  Dorian is half expecting somewhere bleak and almost industrial, but as Ataash opens the door and waves to the dwarven woman behind the bar, he is struck by the sumptuousness of the place.  The ceiling is painted midnight blue, hung with what seems to be hundreds of tiny lights.  The walls are covered in thick green velvet - the dyeing is perhaps influenced by magic, or perhaps it is just the lights, as the colour seems to shift, giving the place the air of a forest sanctuary, moving its leaves in a faint breeze.  The music is coming softly from overhead speakers - jazz trumpets.  Dorian sighs, follows Ataash to the bar.  

 

“Sig,” Ataash says, and the dwarf grins.  

“‘Taash.”  The dwarf raises an eyebrow as she looks at Dorian, almost as if she is weighing him up.  Finally, she asks, “And who’s the beardless one?”

“None other than Dorian Pavus.  He drinks on our tab, okay?”

“You got it.  Same as always?”

“Same as always.”  Ataash smiles at her, then turns to Dorian, “What’ll you have?”

 

Dorian tells her, and she nods, then slyly adds, “You sure?  We got some nice Bottled Scar?  I mean, if you’re not paying, right..?”

Dorian chuckles, tells her, “Alright.  I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name…”

She sticks out a hand, “Sigrun.  Welcome to the Wending Wood.”

He shakes her hand, smiles, and tells her it’s lovely to make her acquaintance.  And it really is, but now he’s growing nervous - what will Ataash have to say to him?  Will it be a relief if Ataash… if Ataash wants Bull back?  But surely, no.  Dorian cuts himself off this dangerous train of thought, though he is rather relieved to feel the surge of possessivness which rises in his chest at the thought of Ataash and Bull together.  He tells himself  _ there’s only one way to find out, and that is to follow and listen carefully to what he has to say. _ So of course, he turns, follows Ataash to where the qunari is sitting at a booth, near the back of the tiny room.

  
  


“So,” Ataash says, staring at his hands where they lie on the table, “So, I guess you’re wondering what happened between Bull and I.  I mean, I can only guess, because that’s what I’d want to know, but…  it’s not something that everyone wants to poke into, y’know?  He pauses, takes a deep breath and looks at Dorian with those vaguely disconcerting red eyes.  “Would that be about right?”

 

Dorian purses his lips.  “I suppose,” he tells Ataash quietly.  “I know that Bull… Look, we all have a past, don’t we?  I just… didn’t expect to have to deal with exes.  And…”  _ and I’m frightened, I’m so scared that I’m pushing him away, I don’t know how to do this, I want it and don’t want it, I need it and don’t need it, what is this, what is this love, is this love? _ He closes his teeth against the words and shrugs.  “I haven’t done relationships in a while,” he finishes, rather lamely, hoping that Ataash will accept it without further explanation.

 

There is a moment of silence.  A bright eyed human, very black hair pushed impatiently behind her ear, delivers drinks to their table.  Dorian takes one look at Ataash’s and bursts out laughing.  It is the most ridiculous assemblage of fruit and swizzle sticks and various other accoutrements, and it smells like a peach orchard.  

 

“What on earth is that?” he asks, in between cackles.  

Ataash grins at him, then smiles at the waitress, “Thanks, Mhairi.  Hey, are we still going bowling on Friday next week?”

“Sure are, ‘Taash.” She returns his smile and laughs, swatting at him with the tray, “But you can’t use the rails this time!  You’re such a hustler!”

He blows out a breath between pursed lips and tells her, “Worked that one time, didn’t it?  Ah well.  Okay, see you ‘round, darlin’.”

 

“Yeah, alright.”  She snickers, glances at Dorian and bends down to whisper something in Ataash’s ear.  He smiles, and then Mhairi stands up, glances again at Dorian and blushes violently before turning and almost scampering away.  “She thinks you’re cute,” Ataash chuckles, “and it’s called a Hello Kitty.  I don’t know, I don’t think Sig’s meant to put all this extra stuff in there.”  He grins and pokes at one of the plastic mermaids hanging off the side of the glass, then continues, “It tastes like summer, and it gets you drunk real fast.  Wanna try some?”

 

Dorian wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.  “No, thank you.  I think I’ll pass.”

Ataash takes a sip and shrugs.  “It’s really nice.  It’s got a popsicle in it.”

“Oh, now that’s… that’s just ridiculous!  Who wastes good alcohol by putting a popsicle in it?”

 

Ataash laughs, and then his face goes serious.  “So?  Is that what was bothering you, before? The thing about me and Bull?”

Dorian exhales.  Softly, without looking up from the table, he tells Ataash, “It’s not the fact that you were together.  Like I told you, I’m not such an idiot that I think that Bull existed in some kind of vacuum before we met.  I suppose I just always assumed that we’d had the same sorts of experiences.”  He pauses, almost doesn’t continue, then clarifies, “Rather anonymous.  Not really… relationships.  More… casual.  Where I come from, the fact that I prefer the company of men isn’t frowned upon per se, but my refusal to marry and breed was… how do I put this?... problematic to my family.  As long as I fulfilled my societal obligation in that regard, both of my parents, at different times, told me that essentially I could do as I liked.  But I suppose after such a long while of being told that I could never have what I really wanted, that what I really wanted was against the natural order of things and must be hidden at all costs, that it was dangerous to reveal my proclivities…”

 

He stumbles into silence.  After a moment, he recognises the refrain on the track playing softly through the speakers as the one playing as he and Bull had told each other of their love - the lyrics  _ tell me what you’re running from  _ leap out at him and his nostrils flare.  Ataash says nothing for a long time, and finally Dorian looks at him.  His face is gentle, serene - not precisely sympathetic, but close.  Dorian frowns - sympathy is not what he was looking for, and he feels as if he has said too much.  

Suddenly, Ataash asks, “Did you ever ask him what it was like?  Back when he was still in Lies?”

 

Dorian shakes his head.  “No, not specifically.  I always thought he’d had enough speaking of it…”

Ataash laughs, “That story about him breaking that guy from Philliam’s face about it put you off some, is that right?  Or are you scared to find out too much about him?  About his  _ past _ .  Worried it’ll make him more real?”  Dorian frowns, perplexed at the viciousness suddenly more than apparent in Ataash’s tone.  Ataash only nods as if he has proved his own theory, then says, “It’s not my story to tell, but we used to talk about that a lot.  Lies broke up while we were seeing each other, Bull and I, and he’s come a long way.  But then… Bull’s always really known what it is that he wants, he’s never had trouble reaching out for it.  Being truthful to yourself, and having enough… I don’t know… self respect to let yourself be weak, because that’s what you need… that’s kind of a big deal to him.”

 

Dorian stiffens, and the silence grows.  Eventually, Ataash continues, “He could be the best thing that happened to you, if you let him.  You just need to decide that that’s what you want.”

Dorian tries desperately to quell the tide of irritation that has risen within him.   _ Who is this creature who tells me what it thinks after a moment’s acquaintance?  _ a voice inside him hisses.   _ Who is he to tell me what I should and should not do? _  He opens his mouth to give voice to these emotions, when Ataash raises a hand, palm out, toward Dorian.  He lowers his head, and all semblance of good humour is somehow gone.  “Do it, Dorian.  Stop fucking about.  For his sake and your own.  Bull and I might not be together, but I’m still his friend, and I won’t let you toy with him like a cat with a mouse.  We clear?”

 

Dorian nods mutely, and sighs.  Ataash grins, sunlight breaking through his clouded expression.  “Cool.  So, who are you most looking forward to seeing at Skyhold?”  His smile fades somewhat as Dorian only looks at him, then he raises his eyebrows.  “Too soon?”

  
“Just a little.”  Dorian takes a deep breath in, then tells Ataash, very quietly, “I love him.  I don’t need to justify what we have to anyone else, and that includes you.”  When Ataash starts to protest, Dorian holds up one hand in an echo of Ataash’s gesture and smiles slightly.  “I think… I just need some time.  On my own.  Thank you for the wine.  I suppose I’ll see you tonight.”  And with that, he rises, waves to Sigrun behind the bar, and leaves, climbing up, out into the sunlight.


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

“The shade, is a tool / a device / a saviour / See I try / to look up / to the sky / But my eyes burn.”

 _My Own Summer (Shove It)_ , Deftones ( _Around the Fur,_ 1997)

* * *

 

The sun is still shining, and the world has warmed up a little.  Dorian blinks in the light and takes a deep breath.  He hadn’t realised how oppressive the air of the little bar, the Wending Wood, had been.  And, it has to be said, he’s feeling marginally better about everything, having spoken to Ataash.  It’s so strange - the anger, the despondency that he had felt toward Bull has now been redirected, given new form.  Not that he thinks Bull is blameless in this, not at all, but... the way that Ataash had spoken to him, almost smug, condescending, really.  He rolls his eyes at himself, considering that annoyance has always been a better friend to him than self-pity, and smiles wryly as he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.  There is a shout of “Hey!  Dorian!” behind him in a now familiar tone, and the smile widens.  He turns, grinning, and Anders waves at him.

 

The other mage jogs a little to catch him up, and embraces him.  Dorian chuckles and returns the hug.  Truly, nobody would mistake Anders for anything more remarkable than an aging hippy - he wears a thin brown scarf over his hair, a threadbare khaki t-shirt and truly horrific, voluminous, violently patterned yoga pants.  His feet are bare.  Dorian cannot help but smirk at the sight.

“Hey,” Anders smiles at him, “How are you?”

“Oh, fine, I suppose.  Well… a little worse for wear, truth be told.”

 

Anders frowns a little at that, and cocks his head.  Dorian shrugs and puts his hands back in his pockets.  To deflect what he’s sure is an oncoming question, he asks, “Where’s Tal?  And the rest of the band?”

“Tal’s… gone to see Fenris, or out with Merrill.  I don’t know.  Isabela’s staying up at the Castle. That’s where I’m heading now.”  Anders looks as if he’s a little ashamed of himself, and then raises an eyebrow and smiles.  “Didn’t think I’d see you out on your lonesome without the boyf.  Trouble in paradise?  Already?”  He pauses, watching Dorian carefully.  And though Dorian is sure that his expression doesn’t falter, Anders touches his arm and tells him, very quietly, “Sorry, man.  I didn’t mean anything by it.”

 

Dorian laughs brightly, shakes his head.  “Whatever gave you the idea that there was trouble?  No, no, it’s just the demands of touring.  You know how it is.”

Anders snorts, “Yeah.  Do I ever.  Demands of touring… that sounds familiar.  All that close-quarters living.  No space to just be by yourself, or at least select the company you’re with.  Sometimes I think Fen has the right idea, going solo.”  Anders rolls his eyes, then changes the subject.  “Have you heard about these pre-shows?  Is Thrown doing anything like that?”

“No, it’s a rest day for us.”  Dorian shakes his head, then gestures with his elbow in the direction he’s walking.  “Why?  Were you going to come and see us again?”

Anders laughs.  “Not this time.  Well, I will see you, but at Skyhold.  Are you doing the same set?”

   

“Goodness, twenty questions today, aren’t we?”  Dorian looks down at his feet and begins to walk, Anders matching his pace.  “No, we’re doing a variant set.  Our show is a lot shorter than what we’d be doing if it was just us.”  He frowns, “You’d be the same, surely?”

“Yes.  We’re doing most of the new album, actually.”  He laughs a little and shakes his head, “I never thought we’d be able to say that.  That we had a new album, I mean.  But here we are.”  He pauses, and his expression darkens.  “I don’t think we’ll be able to say it again.”

 

Dorian frowns, and looks at Anders, wondering.  It sounds to him that there is trouble in the Fader camp, that it’s more than just a long tour behind Anders’ words. But Anders is silent, staring straight ahead.   Dorian clears his throat, thinking of something to change the subject, and he asks, “Are you going to any pre-shows?”

 

Anders laughs.  “I was actually thinking of going to the Viktoria, the divine show.  But…” he shrugs and tells Dorian through a wry smile, “Don’t get old, Dorian.  I find myself in a ‘leave me alone, I’m old and boring’ kind of mood.”

Dorian cannot help himself, he gawps.  “You have _got_ to be kidding.  You’re _Anders_ , the lead singer for _Fader_ , by Andraste’s Ashes.  You might very well be old, but you could never be boring.”

Anders looks at him, astonished for a moment, and then he shouts laughter.  “Dorian, Maker of All.  I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”  He smirks at Dorian and asks him, “What about you?  Going to any shows?”

 

“No, not me.”  Dorian thinks about his little run in with Samson, about the history between the members of Thrown and the other headlining acts at Skyhold.  He cannot help but recollect not only his conversation with Cullen, all those months ago, standing in the dim light in his old bedroom, as Cullen had told him that he hardly remembers the final gig at Kirkwall, but also the way that Hawke had growled _almost got my husband killed_.  He takes a deep breath and says, “Look, stop me if I’m out of line, but what did happen at Kirkwall?  Between Fader and RDVD?”

Anders takes a deep breath and looks at Dorian.  There it is again, that peculiar bright sheen of blue to his eyes, the one that Dorian had first noted with Cole.  He almost takes it back then, wishes he could suck the question back into his throat, make it gone.  But then Anders looks away from him and tugs the scarf a little closer over his head.  “That’s right.  They’re playing tonight, aren’t they, with Templar Babies and Bottled Blood.”  Anders makes a grimace of disgust and shrugs.  “It was a lot of things.  Part of it was the atmosphere - Kirkwall was always badly run, oversold, and there was virtually no security for bands, let alone fans.  It was a three day festival - we headlined the second day, but arrived on the first.  A rest day.”  

   

He flaps his hand at Dorian and shrugs.  “Some rest.  Dreadnought were playing, they were still together then, they headlined the first day, and Isabela… I mean, she thought it would be funny, but she took some stuff out of their… I mean, they had fucking crates of stuff, I’ve never seen a so-called punk band travel so heavy.  And that Ari, he knew it was someone associated with us that had taken whatever it was, and he accused Tal.  Which as you can imagine went down like a cup of cold sick.”

 

Dorian wrinkles his nose at the simile, but nods.  They keep walking, Anders’ bare feet making no noise on the pavement.  Dorian wonders how he can stand it - he knows he’s not built for cold, but Anders seems almost as if he was born to it.  After a moment, Anders continues.

“They were really going for it, like, Ari wanted a fight, but he… I don’t know, maybe he didn’t know that Tal’s a mage.  He just kept throwing these huge punches and Tal would throw up a wall of ice suddenly and Ari would punch that instead.  It was kind of comedic, really.  Tal nearly got his ass handed to him still, but he never said that it wasn’t him.  Just pretended it was until the heat was off.”

 

“And that was just the first day.  RDVD were playing on a second stage, a little further along the waterfront, and we were playing after them, closing out the second day… it was a Thursday, I think.  We did an interview for Varric in the afternoon, while they were playing, and his phone kept going off.  So eventually Izzy gives him shit about it, tells him to check it, and it’s all these texts of just... of… just…”  Anders swallows, unable to go on.  He is silent, and Dorian chances a look at him.  That blue eyed stare is back, and Anders holds himself straighter and grits his teeth.

   

“RDVD,” is all he says, and his voice is low, deeper somehow. “Those bastards.  They had been inciting their fans, goading them to attack mages, magic-enabled, whatever you want to call us.  Kirkwall was an age restricted festival, thank the Maker, but still… so many kids.  So I got up on our stage early.  There were lots of people milling around, waiting for our show to start, and I just… I just told them what was happening over at the RDVD stage.  I gave them the information to at least have the awareness that they might need to defend themselves.”  

 

He looks at Dorian steadily as they keep walking, and then sighs.  “Maybe you don’t understand.  You would have been too young to really know what it was like down here, what it still is like, even after the war - you don’t get anything if you’re a mage in the South.  Magic-enabled, whatever.  Whatever you get, you have to take, and even then, the populace has been fed this… this _lie_ that mages need to be locked into the Circle system in order to not be a threat, and the Templars have a lien to do with us as they please.  And the people, regular people, have bought into that myth, because it’s something they don’t understand.  RDVD adopted that hate, manipulated it to make themselves more popular.  I suppose you could say that White Chant helped them, but there wasn’t anyone from White Chant on stage with them.  I just weighted the scales of justice a little more in our favour that day.”

 

“The only thing I regret is not telling Tal what I was going to do.  But I… I never wanted him to go down with me.  It was my action, my choice.  I mean, you’ve met Tal.”  And Anders laughs here, tugs at the scarf again, “Tal would burn the world if it meant defending us.  Any of us.  When Fenris was trying to get out from under that awful Danarius creep, the guy that used to manage him… when Merrill couldn’t find a gallery to exhibit her work…”  He laughs, and says, “Even Varric, when he was making the switch from journalism to long form, you know?  Tal was there.  He’d do anything for us.  Any of us.”

  


Dorian exhales slowly.  The thought of Cullen being involved in the events as Anders has described them disturbs him, more than he’d ever admit.  He’d told Cullen, of course, that he’d known what a jerk he was once… but this.   _Incitement_ , he thinks, and shudders slightly, remembers that canting footage, shaking as the person filming it had run, the red blood on the red stone.  He itches his elbow through the fabric of his jacket and clutches it a little tighter around himself.  Then a thought occurs to him, and he asks, rather tentatively, “When we met you before your gig in Val Royeaux… you told Cullen that you weren’t the same people that you were back then.  Do you believe it?”

 

Anders smiles cynically, and it chills Dorian all over again to see it.  “I believe it,” Anders tells him, “I believe people are capable of change, that none of us exist in a vacuum.  I know what Cullen’s done - that he’s come off lyrium, and he seems to be making a change in his attitudes.  But you’ll note I never said I had forgiven him.  He might not remember what he did, but saying no when it was already too late does not count as taking action.  It does not absolve him, not one bit.”  Anders takes a deep breath then, and shakes his head.  He looks at Dorian again, and the blue light is faded somewhat.  He holds his hands out in front of him and laughs a little when he sees that they’re shaking, then lowers them back to his sides.  “I didn’t want to be the spokesperson, Dorian.  I always saw the evil that the Circles had perpetrated, always saw the fear that the system had indoctrinated regular people with, fear against us.  But… life, love and liberty.  Isn’t that all anyone needs, whether they’re a mage or not?”

  


Dorian sighs, raises his eyebrow.  “You know, part of that is what attracted me to Fader’s music in the first place.  That you could…” he gestures as if he is trying to physically grasp the right words to use, to find a way to make them into sentences, to make Anders understand.  “...That you could form such beautiful things out of so much trouble, trauma, if you like.  That it could mean so much, even without the exact lived experience, that I could still relate to everything you sang about.”  Anders smiles and flaps his hand dismissively, but Dorian frowns.  “No, maybe I’m not explaining myself correctly.  I only meant that,”  he sighs, tries to rearrange his thoughts, “I only meant that your music, it meant so much to me, growing up.  It still does.  It’s been… a touchstone, almost, the most important music of my life.  Not just that, but… you.  And Taliesin.  Being… together.”  Dorian swallows, smiles wryly, although he can feel the thickness in his sinuses, and all of a sudden he wants Bull, very badly.  “You seem to have a rather epic fairy tale romance, and I hope that… I hope that I can have that too.  Someday.”

 

“Hey,” Anders says, and stops walking.  He turns to look at Dorian, smiling slightly, though also looking very worried.  “You will.  If that’s what you want.  But Dorian…” and here he looks away, his expression clouded, strange, “Just know that fairy tales… they’re not real.  Real is blood, and tears, and hard times.  Real is change, changing, sometimes at the worst possible time.  Real is all that, and it’s still worth it.  More than worth it.”  Anders lips part, and he looks almost as if he will say more, but then he steps toward Dorian and pulls him into a hug.   Anders’ hands are chilly, even through Dorian’s jacket, even in the warm sunshine, but he smells of elfroot and apples, growing things, and Dorian smiles.  He puts his hands up, onto Anders’ back, and pulls him closer, his forehead on Anders’ shoulder.  “Thank you,” he murmurs into Anders’ chest, “Thank you for everything.”

 

“It’s nothing, ‘kay?  You know, you do me good too.”  Anders pulls back a little and smiles down into Dorian’s face.  “It’s… well, I wouldn’t say pleasant, but it’s good to think back on this stuff, kind of.”  He rubs a hand over his chest and looks up at the large hotel they are outside of, standing underneath a sun-faded navy awning.  “Makes me realise… ah, anyway.”  He smiles ruefully and tells Dorian, “This is my stop.”

 

“Oh, of course.”  Dorian puts both hands back into his pockets and looks around himself.  He thinks he knows how to get back to the hotel from here, but supposes he should check in with Bull first, just to let him know that he’s alright.  He feels a tiny shard of guilt at the thought, wondering why he hadn’t thought to do so already.  “Well, thank you again.  I suppose I’ll see you all around Skyhold.  Say hello to Isabela for me, would you?”

 

“You can say hello to me yourself, sweetheart,”  Isabela says, then looks to Anders, her eyebrow raised.  “Better late than never, right?  Are you buying the drinks this time?”

“I suppose I’d better,” Anders tells her, and they begin to walk into the hotel.  Dorian narrows his eyes slightly - the thought recurs to him, that there is something tense, something unexplained going on here, and he wonders how much he would want to know about the inner tensions of Fader.  Anders’ comment that he doubts they’d be able to make another album comes back to him, and his frown deepens.  

 

“‘Bye, Dorian.  See you later,” Anders calls over his shoulder, and Dorian waves.  He suddenly remembers about the session that Bull had proposed, almost as if he has been struck by divine inspiration, and “Oh!” blurts involuntarily from his lips.  Anders and Isabela both turn; both look slightly wary.  

“Yeah?” Anders asks.

“Ataash… you know, Inquisition Records, - we’re going to be breaking in their new soundboard tonight with a jam; us, and Bees!Bees!Bees.   Down at the studio.  Bull suggested it.  Ataash seemed amenable to anybody just showing up, so if you wanted to…”  Dorian trails off, feeling suddenly awkward.  Isabela smirks, then scratches the tattoo of a ship with three masts on her arm.  

 

“I’ll be there.  I’ll tell the others too, if you like.  I’ve always enjoyed breaking things.  Tal does too, I hear.”  Anders nostrils flare momentarily, and then he sighs and smiles.  

“I’ll think about it, Dorian. Thanks though.” He flaps his hand once again, tells Dorian he’ll see him later, and Dorian understands he is dismissed.  He smiles as Isabela and Anders continue into the lobby.  Then he continues on his way, back toward his own hotel.  Back toward Bull, finally.

 

-|||-

 

_coming back to hotel now.  sorry to walk out._

 

Dorian carries his phone in his hand, hoping against hope that Bull will text back quickly.  He knows that he is never too far away from his phone, has been told off numerous times by Josephine for posting long and detailed responses to fan questions on Facebook, or the sheer volumes of his photos of strange things which catch his eye along the tour.  But Dorian is most of the way back before his phone trembles in his hand.  He looks down and scans the message, which reads:

_Ok_

 

There is nothing more.  Nothing more than those two little letters on the screen, and they fill Dorian’s heart with dread.  Not even a single emoji, which for a man who ritually replies with nothing but strings of emojis, can only be a bad sign.   _Ok,_ Dorian thinks, _What is that supposed to mean?  ‘Ok’, I know you’re sorry?  ‘Ok’, you should be sorry? ‘Ok’, and we’ll discuss it later?  ‘Ok’, I never want to talk to you again?_  His heart begins to hammer in his chest and he tries to damp it as his panic rises.  He quickens his pace.  Finally, he is there, at the hotel that Thrown are staying at, he pushes through the doors, into the lobby, and goes immediately to the elevator, punching the button with the little up arrow repeatedly.  

 

“You know, it doesn’t make it get here faster,” an amused voice says from behind him, and he turns, almost snapping a response at the woman standing there, but at the last moment, he realises it is Cassandra.  She frowns.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he tells her, and she snorts.

“Looks like nothing.  Tell me, what’s going on?”

“It’s _nothing_ , Cassandra, leave it.”

 

She folds her arms over her chest and plants her feet.  The elevator chimes its arrival, and the doors slide open behind Dorian.  They enter the lift, and Dorian punches the button for their floor.  The doors seem to take forever to slide shut, even after Dorian remembers to push the closure button.  He sighs, and Cassandra looks at him again.  She says nothing, but he feels the weight of her gaze upon him.  Finally, as the elevator begins to rise, he says quietly, “I walked out on Bull.  I got jealous, and walked out.  He was with Ataash.”

 

Cassandra frowns, but says nothing.  The silence deepens, then Cassandra asks, “So?  Why don’t you go to him?”

Dorian looks at her, and his confusion must be obvious, because she snorts.  “He’s not here.  He’s gone with Cullen.  Having a drink with Viktoria.”  Cassandra works her mouth as if she has tasted something deeply unpleasant.  Then she looks at him and asks, “Don’t you guys do communication or something?  Didn’t he tell you what his plans where?”

 

“No, he did not tell me!  Of course, otherwise why would I be here?  Fasta vass, Cassandra, this information would have been…”

She holds up a hand to silence him, and says, “Well, you have it now.  But… does he know where you are?”  When Dorian nods, Cassandra asks, “Wouldn’t it be better to let him come to you, if he knows this is where you’ll be?  Give him some space too?”

“I don’t _want_ to give him space, I want to apologise, I want…”

“Listen to yourself, Dorian!” Cassandra hisses, “I want this, and I want that.  There are two of you in this relationship.  Shouldn’t what Bull wants count as well?”

  


Dorian opens his mouth to reply, and then closes it again.  He feels his eyes widen as the magnitude of what Cassandra has said occurs to him - _selfish, selfish_ chimes again, like out-of-tune bells in his head.  Cassandra frowns slightly at his look, and folds her arms.  “What?”  She asks as the lift beeps their arrival at the right floor, “Why do you look like I just smashed your Manson?”

 

“I… I just…” Dorian begins, and then is momentarily overcome.  “Kaffas, I’m such an idiot.  I am _such_ an idiot…”

“No, you’re not an idiot.  Come on,” Cassandra tells him, taking him by the elbow.  She walks straight through the corridor and unlocks what he can only assume is her room; it certainly isn’t his.  He baulks a little, but she hauls him over the threshold and then points imperiously to the armchair.  “Sit there.”

 

She goes to the little kitchenette and retrieves two tumblers, into which she pours a large measure of some white spirit - Dorian doesn’t recognise the label, or the language in which it is printed.  As Cassandra crosses the room she holds one of the tumblers out to him and says, “Drink.”

He does, and has to choke back a cough.  The liquid is very strong, and though it smells of oranges it tastes like burning tyres.  He coughs again, his eyes beginning to water, and asks, his voice husky, “What on earth was that?”

“Old Pentaghast family recipe for sadness. Drink enough of that, you don’t remember your own name, let alone what you were sad about.”

 

He raises an eyebrow.  Despite the initial shock, the aftertaste of the… whatever it is… is actually very pleasant - somewhere between a ripe fruit and caramel.  But Maker, it is _very_ strong.  He merely wets his lips the next time he tips the glass up to his lips - on top of the wine he has drunk earlier, he is beginning to feel a little precarious.  It’s no better the second time around, and he puts the tumbler on the tabletop, balancing it on a coaster.  Cassandra’s lips ghost into a smile and she throws her own drink back, taking all the liquid into her mouth and swallowing it quickly.  Then she smirks and pours herself another.

“You want to talk about it?” she asks, eyes on the glass.

 

Dorian considers.  He is about to say no, when he suddenly blurts, “Cassandra, am I selfish?”

“Actually, no.”  She looks at him, glass half raised to her lips.  Then she drinks the second measure down, and puts the empty glass into the sink.  “You’re vain, and you put far too much store in how things look, and you can be a little naive sometimes.  But no.  You’re not selfish.”  She plops herself onto the edge of the bed.  “Why?”

 

“It seems to be rather a recurring theme in the deep and meaningfuls I’ve had today,” Dorian tells her darkly, then proceeds to tell her the contents of his conversations with both Samson and with Ataash.  “So you see,” he tells her, “I’m really wondering if…”

 

There is a knock on the door, and Bull’s voice, sounding more than a little drunk on the other side of it.  “Cassie-baby,” he croons, “Are you decent?”

Cullen brays laughter and Bull hushes him.  Cassandra looks at Dorian, seems to make an assessment and walks quickly to the door.  “Yes, but I’ve got company.”

“Alright, Cassie!” Bull whoops, and Dorian grins and shakes his head.  “You coming to this thing tonight?  We gotta eat…”

“Yes Bull, I’m coming, now _fuck off_ please…”

“You seen Dorian?”

 

A pause, where Cassandra looks at Dorian, who shrugs, masking his sudden feeling of vulnerability in affected casualness. Cassandra rolls her eyes, and snorts.  “Stop being so childish.”

She opens the door, and Bull stumbles slightly into the room - evidently he had been leaning against it as he was talking to Cassandra.  And with that tiny motion, all of Dorian’s worry flies away - he sees Bull again, with new eyes; the rememberance of the vulnerability that Bull had shown when he had spoken to Dorian in Starkhaven, after his phone conversation with Tallis, after Gatt’s arrest surges within Dorian’s breast, changes into a fierce love and a need to protect Bull, to show him how much he cares for him.  He swallows at the sudden, unconscious wobble of his bottom lip, puts it down to the wine, and smiles.  Bull smiles back.

“Get it together, you two.” Cassandra sighs. “Cullen, come on, let’s go,” She speaks across Bull, who is still standing in the doorway, staring at Dorian, “Let’s go eat while these idiots get themselves organised.  Please be back to normal by the time we see you at Inquisition, you two.  No more nonsense.”  She glowers at them, and then steps past Bull to Cullen, pushing him by the shoulder to get him moving.  

“‘Bye,” Cullen calls over his shoulder, his voice echoing down the corridor, “Make sure you talk and not just… the other thing!”

 

Dorian rolls his eyes and smiles.  “Come on.  We do need to talk.”

“No other thing?”  Bull’s eye gleams cheekily, but he nods, acquiescing to Dorian’s point, and Dorian’s smile widens.  He thinks of all the things he’s left unsaid, and tries to communicate them wordlessly, smiling up into Bull’s face as he wraps his arms around that solid, substantial waist.   _I love you,_ he tries to make his body tell Bull, hopes to the Maker that Bull understands on a level that transcends language, _I love you, I’ll protect you, I’ll always be here for you._ He laughs.  

“Maybe... afterward.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New characters! [oh, oh, I am so excited]: Carver Hawke, Fenris, Leliana (though she's referred to as Lily or Viktoria, the divine here)  
> No new tags, though as usual some of the old ones apply.

“Dori, Dori, Dooooooooorrriiaaan, are you gonna sing, are ya?”  Sera is practically dancing, clutching the neck of her guitar as she prances around him.  

He laughs, holds the plastic cup of wine aloft, out of Sera’s way as Bull snorts laughter through a mouthful of beer.  

 

Of course, he and Bull had talked, though far less frankly than Dorian had intended.  It had still felt good, cathartic almost.  Bull had leant against the counter of the little kitchenette in Cassandra’s room as Dorian had explained what he’d told Ataash, how he’d felt when Ataash had told him that he was messing Bull around.  “Do you… do you feel that way? That I’m…”

 

“Nah.  I don’t.”  Bull had paused, looking at Dorian then, and told him, “But you think you are, don’t you?  You’re real worried you’re not doing any of this right.”  He clucks, there is no other word for it, and his brow creases in concern. “Dorian, there  _ is _ no right way to do this.  We gotta do whatever works for us.  If that’s taking it slow, then that’s fine.  ‘Taash doesn’t get _ slow _ , and he never will.”  

 

Bull had continued, “You know, you’re kinda right not to trust me with your whole heart.  I mean,   I been burned before, rushing into things.  I get it.  But…”  and here he had smiled, stepped forward from leaning against the bench and walked slowly to where Dorian was perched on the armrest of the ugly little easy chair.  Leaning down, he had taken Dorian’s shoulders, kissed him gently on the forehead, the cheek, under his jaw.  Dorian had sighed, remembering how Ataash had asked if Bull had told him about his time in Lies as Bull had murmured, “I feel it, I feel  _ you _ , under my skin, almost every moment of the day.  You sit there, your words in my head, and this… I don’t know, you’re just  _ in _ me, I can’t explain it.  And you know, I’m gonna prove to you that it’s all worth it, okay, kadan?”  He had knelt before Dorian, their heads level, and Bull had said, “I’m gonna keep proving it until you believe me.  I love you, kadan.”

 

Dorian shakes his head, smiling at the memory, to find Sera still staring at him.  He grins at her, then asks, “Sing what?  Maker, Sera, calm down.”

 

“Can’t!  Won’t!  Do this one!”  She grabs a sheet of paper from Bull, who smiles at her and nudges Merrill, who giggles.  To Dorian’s surprise, Dagna had shown up with Merrill, Taliesin and Carver Hawke from Last Warden Standing in tow.  Sera had arrived perhaps half an hour later with Isabela and Anders.  Cassandra and Cullen had been the last to arrive.  Cullen had looked at Dorian as he had entered the studio, grinning wickedly and had rolled his eyes; Cassandra had entered then, along with an elf, clad all in black, white scarification standing out starkly on his chin and throat.  It had taken Dorian a moment to realise that Cassandra was blushing, and he had looked at the elf, curious.  But of course - it is Fenris, the single-musician tour de force known as Lycanthrope, and Dorian smirks as he bites his tongue, saving his barbs about fangirling for later, when it is at least a little less likely that Cassandra will beat him to death with his own guitar for airing them.

  
  


Sera thrusts the sheet of paper into Dorian’s face and waggles it about until he takes it.  He scans the paper, and nods when he recognises the song.  Then he looks up and asks her, “Are you doing the guitar part?”

“Yeah, ‘course!  Ol’ lady over there, Merry, she’s gonna do the drums.”

“Why don’t you sing then?”

Sera blows a raspberry.  “Hate singin’.  Only do it ‘cause Widdle won’t… I’ll do back up for ya though.”  Sera waves her hand and grins, “C’mon Dori, once ol’ Fenny’s finished bossing everyone about…”

 

“I am not  _ bossing everyone about _ .  I am trying to record a session full of mostly drunk people while I am also mostly drunk.  It’s not as easy as I make it look,” Fenris states, matter-of-factly.  He has one hand possessively on a wine bottle, while the other moves a fader on the sound board.  Dorian watches as he purses his lips and frowns, then flips a switch to turn on the studio mic.  “Hawke, you’re too fast again.”

 

“S’a race!” Hawke laughs, then strums frantically on his guitar from inside the studio.  It sounds awful, and Dorian, Isabela and Bull all laugh.  Inside the studio, Ataash groans; outside it, Carver and Fenris do the same.  Dagna rolls her eyes and pokes at Hawke with her one of her drumsticks.  

“We’re not doing it again, Fenris!” she yells, “This is meant to be fun, not perfection.”

“Perfection is fun,” he tells her, bending down into the studio mic, and in the studio, Ataash chuckles.  

 

“Okay, Fen, put your money where your mouth is.  You’re up with me after Sera and that lot do their thing, ‘kay?  And Hawke can lay the track.”

Fenris grunts, which Dorian supposes is his way of acquiescing.  He looks down, toward the sheet of music, then looks at Sera. 

“If you’re doing guitar, and I’m singing, and Merrill’s on drums, that’s everyone, isn’t it?  Or do you want a bassist?”  He looks at Cullen, who is leaning against the far wall talking to Carver and Isabela.  She cocks her head, catching Dorian’s eye, and yells, “What?”

“Do one of you want to play bass with us?” Dorian asks, and flaps the sheet of music.  Next to him, he hears Sera clear her throat and from the corner of his eye observes her stand up a little straighter.  

 

“Yeah, maybe Izzy, yeah?  You could do it, eh?  I mean, I was gonna just downtune, but…”

“What song is it, kitten?” Isabela asks and Merrill laughs.

“Izzy, let Cullen do it! He hasn’t done one yet, and you did that cover of that silly Chargers song with Anders and Bull already, you know, the one about the giant.  Cullen, Cullen, come and look, please?”

Cullen sighs and ambles over.  He scans the sheet music that Dorian hands him, and smiles slightly.  “Sure,” he says, “I can knock together a bass line for this.  It’s cute.  Pretty retro though, right?”

“That’s the idea, Big Boots,” Sera tells him, and snatches the sheet of paper out of his hand.  “You sure you don’t want me to just downtune, Magetits?”

“Ugh, please stop calling me that Sera, it’s repugnant…”

“Nah, that’s why I do it, innit? ‘Sides, you are, aren’t you?  A mage and that?”

“Yes, but in case you haven’t noticed, the second part of the nickname is rather inappropriate…”

 

Sera looks blankly at him, and Merrill grins, then stage whispers to her, “He’s trying to tell you he doesn’t have tits!”

“Bloody hell, I know that!  Pfft, think  _ I _ don’t know what a pair of tits looks like, fucksakes… just doin’ it to make you squirm, Dori-baby.  I can stop though, if it’s makin’ you feel weird or whatever…”

“How very considerate.”  Dorian sighs. Cullen snorts and grins.  

“You two feisty cavemen.” He mutters and plants his hands on his hips.  “So?  Do you want me to play bass or not?”

“Yes,” Dorian tells him, ignoring Sera’s rolled eyes.  “Vishante  _ kaffas _ , Sera, there is a bass part in this song, and it will not do to have you just downtuned when I’m not even playing guitar, that’s a ridiculous option…”

“Yeah, yeah, Mage… uh, Dorian.  Whatever you say.  Don’t blame me when it sounds borin’ though.”

Finally, Fenris throws up his hands and groans.  “This isn’t even a nugs ear, it’s terrible.  Hawke’s out of time, ‘Taash keeps coming in on the wrong beat, Dagna’s the only one doing anything right,  _ fasta vass _ …”

“C’mon, Fen,” Isabela rises from the sofa, walks to where he stands, “Let’s relieve you, shall we?” With that, she bends to the microphone and flips the switch.  “Sounds perfection, darlings!  Come back and drink wine with us please!”

 

“It sounds like arse.  Worse than arse,” Fenris grumps, folding his arms over his chest.  Dorian smothers a smile at the tone of his voice.  It’s somehow comforting to find that the Lycanthrope is every bit as ill-tempered as his reputation had claimed, and Dorian wonders what he’d be like to work with, how both Hawke and Isabela have maintained anything more than a professional relationship with him.  Dorian notes that he hasn’t seen Anders the entire time that Fenris has been at the soundboard, wonders if they are avoiding each other.  Then Sera grabs his arm and chirps, “Finish your drink, fancy-pants!  Time to sing!”

 

Dorian leans toward the microphone, cups his hands around his headphones and sings, “...Well, you can twist and shout… let it all hang out, but you..” and then Sera leans in as well and joins him, tilting her chin up to sing, “won’t fool… the children of the revolution! No, you won’t fool the children of the revolution!...”  He looks at her from the side of his eye, and she grins and pokes him with her elbow as she strums.  Cullen is peering at the sheet music, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he does.  Merrill grins at them; the song is very basic for a drummer, but do any of them really need technical tonight?  Do any of them want technicalities?  

Dorian shifts his gaze, the lyrics popping into his mind in bright bursts, and he sees Bull in the booth, watching him. 

“...I drive a Rolls Royce, ‘cause it’s good for my voice,” he sings and hears Sera laugh.  He arches an eyebrow and smiles at her, glad of the sound of her laughter to bring him back to the here and now. His eyes move to Bull again, and he melts a little at the sight - Bull is watching him raptly, a fond smile playing about his mouth.  Dorian smiles at him, almost forgets his next line, and resolves to concentrate on the task at hand.

Sera laughs again.  “You did good, Magetits! Argh, sorry.  Dorian! Dorian! Dorian!  But, haha, lookit, you do have a sense of humour after all.”  She pulls the strap of her guitar over her head, begins to turn it to look at Merrill, and then lunges forward, looking into the booth.  “Wassat alright?” she screeches, and Hawke gives them a double thumbs up.  Sera laughs and looks at Dorian, “Fucker’s so drunk he doesn’t know his arse from Tuesday.  Did better’n him and Widdle and ‘Taash if we got a good cut on the first take!”

 

Merrill smiles at them both and says fondly, “Y’know, I love that song.  I wish I could sing…”  She cackles and taps the kick pedal, “Well, I can sing.  But not as nicely as you, Sera.  Did you have lessons?”

Sera snorts.  “Don’t need lessons.  You just do it, right?”  She pulls the guitar strap over her head and Cullen grins and nods.  Dorian smiles slightly.  For all her punk aesthetic and don’t-give-a-shit demeanour, Sera’s Fender Jaguar is perfectly maintained, and he wonders whether that is a result of an excellent road crew or her own caretaking abilities.  “First you’re shite, and then you’re not.  Same wiv guitar, innit?  Anyone can play guitar, they put their mind to it.  What, d’you get lessons or somefink?”

 

Merrill rises from the stool and hitches at the back of her bottle-green short-shorts.  As she comes around the side of the kit, her fingers reach out for the high-hat, and she flicks it absentmindedly.  “Yes, I did!  When I was younger.  Lots of lessons, but then my teacher had too many students, and I suppose I was too old for them.  She had to let me go.  Marethari was her name.”

 

Sera shrugs disinterestedly, and the door of the studio opens.  Ataash pokes his head around the door and grins.  “Come on you lot.  Time for Fenris to take me to school.”

“Now this, I am looking forward to seeing,” Dorian says as he walks toward the door.  He’s aware, moments after the words leave his lips, that what he’s said could be construed as slightly rude, but since it’s Ataash, he cannot pretend to really care.  The Vashoth enters, just as Dorian reaches the doorway, and they stand awkwardly, neither wanting to be the one to shift so that the other can pass.  Dorian is used to Bull’s bulk by now, so it is not Ataash’s size which he finds intimidating, not necessarily.  But there is something about him, something which is… uncontrollable.   _ You still feel emotionally threatened by him and his past with Bull, _ Dorian tells himself sternly, _ so you’re ascribing a physical threat to his presence. _  But all of the pop-psychology in the world cannot change the fact that that is how he feels - and if the smile on Ataash’s face is anything to go by, he’s well aware of the reaction he’s provoking.

 

Smirking, Ataash finally shifts aside slightly, barely enough for Dorian to get through.  Dorian raises his chin, and as he passes, he summons a little Horror, then pushes rather harder against Ataash than could be mistaken for an accidental brush.  He cannot help but smile when he sees Ataash shudder, and thinks  _ didn’t see that coming, did you? _

 

Just outside of the door, in the corridor which links the recording studio from the musician’s space, Fenris is leaning against the door, a matt black Epiphone Les Paul in one fist.  Cassandra stands with him, shifting from foot to foot, her white PRS with her, Carver Hawke a little further down the corridor again, scowling into nothingness.  Dorian stops and cocks his head at Cassandra, stepping aside so that Sera can pass.  He asks the group at large, “What track are you doing?”

 

Fenris is the one who answers him.  “One of the old Seek Truth numbers.  I suspect Ataash won’t be the only one getting ‘schooled’, as he puts it.”  He narrows his eyes at Dorian, then sweeps his hair off his forehead and looks at Cassandra.  “It’s one of my favourites.”

Dorian looks at her and says, rather mockingly, “It’s not one of the twenty minute ones, is it?”

Fenris glares at him and opens his mouth as if to reply, but Carver beats him to it.  “Figures you’d have a short attention span,” he mutters darkly, and Cassandra grins at Dorian and shrugs.  

“Alright, alright!” Dorian says, holding his hands up in mock affront, though he smiles at Cassandra as he says it.  “I’ll just take a nap if I get too bored then.”

 

Cassandra laughs.  She looks utterly delighted, and Dorian smiles - the last time he’d seen her this happy, she was dancing.  Ataash pops his head out of the studio and tells them, “Come on.  I can’t do this set up all by myself, you know.”

“Come on, Dorian!” Merrill shrills, taking him by the arm, “Let’s go supervise Tal.”

 

“He’ll need a lot of that,” Carver tells her, and Dorian observes his expression soften slightly as he speaks to her.  The Hawke brothers share the wild dark hair and darker eyes, but Carver is built much more broadly than Taliesin, who is tall and rangey.  Carver catches his eye and frowns for a second, then looks back to Merrill to say, “That lightweight.  He’s pretty fucked.”

Merrill laughs, “Then we’ll supervise him extra closely, won’t we, Dorian?  Have fun, you lot!”

“Fun… yes…” Carver says glumly, then follows Cassandra into the studio.

 

The atmosphere in the recording booth is excited, anticipatory.  Everyone is standing facing the windows into the studio - they remind Dorian of medical students about to witness a fascinating procedure.  Dorian catches himself wondering if they all watched him with such interest.  Then he shakes his head and smiles; he knows he is a fine guitarist, but these musicians are in quite another class altogether - it’s not that they are better, per se, but they do have an amazing clarity of focus and singularity of vision which distinguishes their work.  Bull turns as Dorian enters and holds out an arm, smiling.  Dorian pauses for a moment, almost resisting the gesture, and then he smiles back and goes to him, nestling under Bull’s arm.  Dagna looks up at them and grins.  “Aww, cuties.”

“Dagna-baby… what the fuck did Carver do to that snare?”  Bull asks her, staring fascinated as Carver rights the drum back onto its stand and gets up off the floor.

 

“Bull, you never done that before?  Oh boy, it’s awesome - he’s changing the pitch, loosening up some of the lugs…”

“Yeah, I get that, but why’s he only doing a couple..?”

“He’s making the texture uneven, right?  So instead of getting just a flat tonality, he’s got a whole different sound…”  Dagna shrugs, “Seek Truth used two drummers for this song, so unless Hawke overlays the track…”

 

“Not gonna happen…” Hawke slurs, and grins at them.  “Jus’ sayin’.  We get this in one take, or it stays ungot.  I don’ have the patience to lissn to forty eight takes.  Bad enough when Fenny’s actually recordin’ a record.”  He turns to look through the studio window, and his grin widens, looks almost sappy.  Dorian sees Anders, standing next to Hawke, roll his eyes, then Hawke flips on the mic.  “Fen!” He yells into the microphone, and Carver jumps. 

“Hey, you git!” he yells back, one hand on his chest, “Stop yelling in the mic!”

Hawke laughs, and says, “Love you too, baby bro.  Gimme the thumbs up when you’re ready, alright, gang?”

 

Fenris nods and looks to Cassandra, he mutters something that Dorian doesn’t catch and Cassandra looks at Hawke and grins.  Hawke laughs, and says, “Asshole.”  Then he realises he’s not put the mic on and has to repeat himself.  Fenris smiles thinly and gives him the finger then turns his hand around and gives Hawke the thumbs-up.  

 

Hawke clears his throat, pushes two red buttons simultaneously and says into the mic, “ _ Unknown Awareness _ , take one, Inquisition sessions.  Rolling.”  Dorian feels as well as hears as Bull grunts in approval, though he cannot place for himself the track simply by its name.  Carver’s sticks are poised over the skins, Ataash’s shoulders look tense, his facial expression blank with attentiveness.  Both have their eyes on Cassandra, but it is the dynamic between her and Fenris that interests Dorian.

  
  


A slight buzz of tone, the noise of fingers sliding down the strings of a guitar fills the studio speakers, and then two high harmonics.  The sounds are sharp, brittle, and then Ataash begins a solid, grinding bass line.  Four counts of four of wall-to-wall bass, threatening like distant thunder, the high pitch of the guitar harmonics picking their way delicately across the soundscape of fuzz and doom like a child in a minefield.  To create these sounds, Cassandra does not strum or pluck the string - she hardly needs to touch it.  Her face is serious with concentration, and Dorian watches as she nods minutely to Fenris.  Gone is the fawning fangirl; here is the woman who knows the magic, knows her power, and Dorian sees her smile slightly as she begins a series of echoing groaning sounds from her guitar, which are picked up by Fenris.  His sound is much more laden, heavy and dirty with overdrive, and after watching Cassandra for a moment longer, he drops his head, the white hair falling over his brow again.

 

Maker, the song builds and builds, Carver biting his lip in concentration, Ataash nodding his head, swaying back and forth in time to the music.  It is so atmospheric, so… serene and yet fraught with danger, Dorian finds himself wondering what Seek Truth might have been like back in their day, before the cult of personality that had built up around Lucius Corin bloated his ego beyond all reason.  He finds himself lulled by the pulsating rhythm, slow, demanding, hypnotic; so much so that he is pulled out of a deep reverie by the sound of Fenris’ voice.   _ Seeds of scorn are planted _ , Fenris sings, and his voice is seething, rough, just this side of spoken word,  _ Tribulations… are hanging.  Humiliation… congeals… Minutes stutter… Unknown awareness.  _

 

Fenris stomps on one of the pedals at his feet and the sound becomes more sparse.  Carver flicks his hair out of his eyes with an impatient movement of his chin, and Cassandra grins at him.  Kaffas, she looks almost frightening, so alert, so in control… Dorian has never seen her like this before.  The song builds again, the bright crash of the cymbals bringing a snort of approval from Hawke and a small  _ oo! _ of joy from Dagna.  Fenris sings again, leaning forward, straining his throat upward toward the mic, and Dorian feels a little chagrin that he’d forgotten to shift it down for him.  Then he frowns at himself and thinks,  _ he had ample opportunity to shift it himself.  Some people don’t mind the strain, I suppose.  And it’s not like he’s really singing anyway. _

 

And then, of course, he feels annoyed with himself for allowing himself to overthink, to become distracted from the joy at hand.  Because it is joy - there is such precision, such effortless focus among the four musicians that he could be wrapped up in watching them for hours.  Cassandra is electric, electrifying, and Dorian almost feels that she must be pulling her punches with Thrown, considering the technicalities of what she is playing now.  As if to prove his point, Cullen, standing on the other side of Dorian, leans across him and mutters, “Sorta makes me think we need to write some new shit, right?  Maker’s Breath, every time I see her play like this I learn something.”

 

Dorian nods, and Bull chuckles quietly.  “Yeah, fuck, this is great.  Look at Fenris, man.  He’s in love.”

And, yes, Dorian supposes it does look a little like love, the expression on Fenris’ face.  His head is bowed, eyes closed, mouth hanging open a little; maybe not love really, but  _ bliss _ .  Satisfaction.  The call-and-response of the two guitars, the way that the bass and drums provide a strong updraft to carry the soaring sound of them… Dorian wouldn’t consider himself very familiar with the genre, but to him, this song is a masterpiece of ambient metal.  It is technically demanding, brooding, subtle, with an emphasis on emotion that Dorian would have doubted without much lyrical content.  He watches as the song begins to spiral toward its conclusion, taking delight in the weight of it, the deliberate, methodical increase in tempo, the control and poise of the four musicians in the studio.  

 

And whatever he may think of the man personally, Ataash is certainly more than proficient on bass.  Dorian scrunches his lips slightly and inhales, half-unconsciously pushing closer into Bull’s side.  He recollects that Ataash had run his own record label - Mercenary Music - before taking the job at Inquisition after Justinia’s death, and wonders if that means he also comes from money, or if he raised the capital himself.  

 

It is while he is thinking about this that the song ends.  Dorian is unable to help himself, he grins mightily, and when someone begins applauding, he is quick to join in.  Carver seems to snort and waves slightly, and then Dorian jumps as Bull hollers his joy.  “Andraste’s Knickerweasles!” Anders yelps, “Next time you want to do that, bloody warn us!”

 

Bull laughs, and Dorian sees the four in the studio looking dazedly at one another.   _ They look positively post-coital _ , he thinks, smirking.  Well really, didn’t they deserve to?  It was a phenomenal take, but almost as if to prove the point that there is nothing so fragile as the creative ego, Fenris holds his hands out either side of his body, his guitar hanging by its strap around his neck.  Clearly, he’s querying the quality of the recording, even Dorian can tell that.  He watches as Hawke leans forward slightly, flips the mic on and says lazily, “Sorry, I forgot to hit record.  Could you do it all again, please?”

 

A chorus of complaint erupts through the speakers from Fenris and Carver simultaneously at that - “You fucking…”

“... _ close _ to funny, Tal…”

“...kaffas, tu es morionem…”

“...always  _ been _ a bloody…”

Cassandra and Ataash laugh, and most of those assembled in the studio laugh along with them.  Anders and Isabela groan loudly, and Dorian can almost feel the sarcasm in Anders’ voice as he says, “Don’t go poking wolves, Tal.  You know you’ll only have to pay for it later.”

“Thass what I’m countin’ on.”  Hawke sounds entirely too pleased with himself, and then there is a bright, tinkling laugh from behind Dorian.

 

“You always were a terror, Taliesin.”  The accent is slightly Orlesian, very cultured, almost sly sounding.  Dorian turns, frowning, and Cullen says quietly, into the sudden stillness, “Lily.  Hey…”

“What are you doing here, hon?” Bull asks, his voice soft, neutral.  He could have been enquiring about the weather outside, and Dorian marvels at the lack of perceivable emotion in it.  But vishante kaffas, she is every inch the pop star; white gold fishnets, high ( _ high _ ) heeled boots in what looks like white calfskin, the briefest shorts Dorian has ever seen, and a white cropped t-shirt worn with a white-dyed bearskin coat which falls to the floor.   _ Viktoria, divine indeed, _ Dorian thinks, eyeing her boots.  They are lovely, and he cannot help but feel relieved that he had changed before coming out this evening.  

 

Viktoria doesn’t even look at him, however.  Her eyes are on Cullen first, then Bull, flicking between them.  She breathes in deeply and says, “I only came to say hello.  I heard that you were doing this tonight from Ataash, and he invited me to come by after my show.  So I did.”  She tucks a strand of loose red hair behind her ear, rather nervously, Dorian thinks.  Maker, the room is so quiet, and now he can hear the low hum of voices in the studio, the door in the next room over slam shut.  Viktoria’s eyes flick to the door, and her voice softens slightly as she says, “Am I not welcome here?”

 

“...with a different headstock, you could…” Cassandra says as she enters the room, talking to whomever is walking behind her.  She seems to sense how loud her voice is in the still and silent recording room, and she frowns at the line of musicians up the end of the room with the sound board.  “What is it?” she asks, paused in the doorway, and Dorian hears Fenris ask, “What?  Is it Hawke?”

 

“No, no, Fen, I’m fine,” Hawke says, and then clears his throat.  “Uh…”

Dorian is still watching Viktoria, who is now looking at Cassandra.  Her facial expression is curious, but hard, and Dorian sees, or thinks he sees where the problem between them lies.  Bull takes a half-step forward, away from Dorian and toward the centre of the room, then looks at Cassandra to say, very low and mellow, “Lily’s here, Cass.  She came to say hi.”

 

And Cassandra’s expression goes blank.  She turns slowly, mouth open slightly, so that she is looking at Viktoria, who smiles a little and says, “Hello, Cassandra.  How are you?”

More silence, still that awful stare.  “What is it?” Carver asks from the corridor, and Fenris hushes him.  Dorian hears a petulant snort, and almost smiles, but venhedis, the tension in the room is palpable, and he wills someone, anyone to break it, otherwise he will laugh, and that will not be good.  Not good at all.  He couldn’t stand for that blank-eyed stare to be focused on him, does not know how Viktoria stands it, why she is just not getting the hint that the rest of Thrown seem to want her gone more than anything.  But there it is again, that battle of wills, not just between Cassandra and Viktoria, or Lily, or whatever it is she’s calling herself, but all the rest of them too.   _ Stubborn _ , he thinks,  _ stubborn and selfish.  But you could not get on in this game without those things.  Nice guys finish last, after all. _

 

All of a sudden, Cassandra moves, walking swiftly across the room toward Viktoria, who merely stands her ground and raises her chin.  Lightning fast, too fast for Bull, who lunges awkwardly forward, trying to grab her, unheeding as Cullen says, “Cass, Cass, don’t…”  she is upon Viktoria in a moment, one hand balled into the fur coat, the other at Viktoria’s throat.  Viktoria’s hands immediately go to Cassandra’s wrist, but her eyes are still ever so slightly mocking.  The room seems to erupt with noise around Dorian, as Cassandra backs Viktoria into wall next to the door.  Viktoria’s head connects with the wall with a thump, and her eyes close briefly, then she smiles at Cassandra viciously.  

 

“You dare?” Cassandra hisses, “You dare to come here, after everything you did?  I told you, I told you…”

Viktoria sneers, “You told me that you never wanted to see me again.  But you don’t dictate to me.  I go where I chose.  Just because White Chant chose me, and you got your little feelings hurt, it isn’t my affair.  Spare me, Cassandra.  You never could have made this work.”

“As if I wanted that!  Any of it!   _ Pathetic _ !”  Cassandra’s grip tightens around Viktoria’s throat for a moment, and Dorian looks at Bull’s back.   _ Shouldn’t we be doing something? _ he thinks, but then Cassandra lets go of Viktoria’s throat and shoves her with the hand gripping her coat, then steps backwards.  “Pathetic,” she repeats, “Pathetic, and I am above it.  I should have known better than to trust you.  You always were devious, Lily.”  She turns to the others, and the look in her eyes is so baleful that Dorian drops his, wondering angrily at the motivations that would spur Ataash to invite Viktoria here, when the bad blood between herself and Cassandra is still so apparent.  Cassandra says nothing, however, but only turns again and strides from the room.  

 

Cullen looks at Dorian, stricken, then steps forward, touching Bull on the arm.  “I’m gonna…” he begins and Bull nods.

“Yeah.  Lemme know, huh?”

Cullen nods, and follows Cassandra, hurrying away.  Dorian thinks he sees Cullen shake his head slightly as he passes Viktoria - he knows that she follows his face with her eyes.  Then, when they hear his footfalls echoing down the corridor, Bull repeats his question, still in the same quiet tone of voice, “Lily, honey.  Why did you come?”

 

And to Dorian’s surprise, Viktoria’s eyes shine with a film of tears as she addresses him.  “Because I held out hope, Bull.  I told myself that everyone is capable of change, and that enough time had passed for us both.  But… I was wrong.  I was wrong.”  She lowers her eyes and hugs the fur coat a little tighter around herself.  “Tell Cass… will you tell her I’m sorry?”

 

“Yeah,” Bull tells her, and Dorian is shocked to hear the lie in his voice.  “Yeah, I’ll tell her.  But… hey, you gotta admit, it was a pretty low move, sneakin’ up on her like that.  You shoulda known she’d come out swinging.”

But though Bull’s voice has not changed, the message is clear - you were the one that fucked this up; you be the one to put it right.  Viktoria’s eyes snap up, blazing at him for an instant, then she nods.  She tosses her head and smiles, “Well, goodbye, everyone.  Thank you for the invitation, Ataash.  I suppose I’ll see you all over the next few days.”  She clutches at the fur of her coat again, and turns, sweeping from the room.

 

As soon as she is gone, Bull’s shoulders sag, and Dorian goes to him.  Sera asks the room in general, “What the fuck was that all about then?” and Dorian hears Dagna muttering to her, and an occasional, “Ooh, nasty,” from Sera.  He puts a hand on Bull’s back, and looks up into his face.  Bull puts an arm around his shoulders and chuckles, grinning in a slightly hangdog way.  “Ah, kadan,” he says, “I’m getting way too old for this shit.”

“Come on then, old timer,” Dorian smiles, “Big day tomorrow.  Shall we retire to our accommodations?”

Bull laughs and squeezes Dorian to him, holding him a moment longer, then releasing.  “Yeah, we’d better, I guess.  Gonna be a long day… a long couple of days.  I thought we could go in raw, but…” he sighs, and rubs a hand over his eyes.  “What a fuckin’ mess.”

 

“Ah, the mess.  What a delight.”  Dorian rolls his eyes, and hears Anders telling someone “...like shit, if you can take him…”

The buzz of conversations snatches the rest of his words away, then Dorian hears Fenris answer: “...not a miracle worker, mage, that’s your department…”

There are other voices there too - Isabela talking low with Merrill, a smile in her tone, Merrill’s answering giggle.  Dagna’s voice, like a bright beam of sunlight through cloud - Ataash’s rumble, Taliesin’s wild cackle of laughter.  It appears that the session is breaking up, and Dorian cannot say he is sad - it had been interesting, more than interesting, but Maker, he is weary of drama.  Weary, and ready for rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two songs that I've referenced from lyrics are: [_Children of the Revolution_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xgcxd9wtXUE) by T-Rex (that's the song that Dorian, Sera, Merrill and Cullen record), and [_Unknown Awareness_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_oD129M3Sd8) which is by Kylesa (not Seek Truth, O Maker's Children! of course!) 
> 
> Incidentally, I couldn't find a music video version of the T-Rex song, so it's from like... Top of the Pops or something. So enjoy the stylish dancing in that video. And wow, if you listen to none of the other music in this fic, I'd really recommend the Kylesa track, because it's gorgeous (obvs, just my opinion there). That's another live one, so the quality is a little bit not-great, but still.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of Skyhold. A misunderstanding and an apology. Dorian makes assumptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags: derogatory language, explicit language, hair pulling, awkward conversations, romance, boys kissing, apologies and fluff (and of course, as usual, some of the old tags apply). A note on these new tags, there isn't a lot of the derogatory/explicit language, but it is there.
> 
> New character: Calpernia

* * *

“I know how to be lost in lust / not because you should, but because you must / It burns white-hot / so clouds the mind / This lightning strike isn’t always kind…”

_ No-one Loves Me, & Neither Do I _ , Them Crooked Vultures

( _ Them Crooked Vultures _ , 2009)

* * *

 

There is mud almost everywhere.  And where there is no mud, there is snow.  Snow!  In summer!  Dorian finds it deeply unnatural, and cups his elbows through the light jacket he’s wearing.  He harrumphs, then looks up into Bull’s face to see him smirking slightly.  “You know,” Bull says quietly, “Glaring at the snow won’t make it any warmer.”

 

“Oh  _ really _ ?” Dorian asks, and sighs.  “I hadn’t realised it.  But honestly, how does anyone  _ live  _  up here?  It’s meant to be summer for goodness sake, and it’s colder than Chantry charity…”

“Haven’s the closest centre,” Bull tells Dorian, and puts his hands into his pockets.  Dorian sidles a little closer, not quite daring to put his arm through Bull’s.  “Skyhold’s pretty sparsely populated, apart from festival season.  But it’s kind of nice here, don’t you think?  And it’s not that cold.  I mean, there are people camping…”

 

“Maker, what could induce anyone to  _ camp _ ?” Dorian asks, appalled.  He sighs, picking his way over the squishy landscape and looks at Bull.  “Any word from Cullen about last night?”

Bull shrugs slightly, “Cass didn’t wanna play.  She kind of shut down.  I mean, I can’t imagine Lily’s gonna line up for another helping of that, but… I didn’t think she’d have the stones to show up, not like that, not out of the blue.”  He rubs under his nose with the back of his hand and sniffs, “Can’t decide if it was stupidity born of hope, or just flat out maliciousness.”

 

Dorian frowns.  “So… They’ll just let it ride?  No resolution?”

“Don’t know,” Bull says, and shrugs again, “Guess that’s up to them.  Can’t force a resolution if they don’t want one.”

“Maker, and here I was thinking that I left all the bitter backbiting and recriminations at home.  I have to say, it  _ does _ rather fill me with a warm sense of familiarity.  The south seems positively civilised, after all that.”

 

Bull only laughs, then narrows his eyes, grinning rather frighteningly at a human who has just approached them.  “Hey, uh,” the young man says, staring up at Bull, completely oblivious to Dorian’s presence, “hey, uh, can I… Can I…”

“C’mon, guy.  Whatcha tryin’ to say?”

The man swallows and blinks, then asks, all in a rush, “Can I have your autograph?”

 

Bull snorts and Dorian rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, ‘course,” Bull says, and Dorian looks at him sharply, noting the low timbre of his voice, the not-quite-suggestion.  He frowns, alarmed, and looks to the man, who is now smiling nervously.  His red-gold hair ( _ the colour of carrots _ , Dorian thinks, rather viciously) shines in the mountain sunlight, and the freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose and over his cheeks are stark on his pale visage.  Bull takes the proffered marker, then holds it uncertainly and says, “Uh…”

 

With this, the man beams and lifts his t-shirt.  Dorian breathes in and out carefully, averting his eyes, willing Bull to refuse.  When he hears nothing, he looks back, and clenches his jaw when he sees Bull writing carefully on the man’s exposed chest.  The skin is a pink-white in colour, a thin runnel of darker hair running down its centre, and Dorian folds his arms over his own chest and snorts, then looks away again.  He feels a little cheapened, and more than a little angry, if he’s honest.   _ We never talked about that _ , he remembers, taken aback a little by the sudden arrival at this train of thought,  _ We never talked about being exclusive. _ _ But… but, I’m sure… _ and he curses his lack of experience in these things, wonders why nobody has ever written about it.  Bull finishes signing his name with a flourish and hands the marker back to the man, who is now a deep, pleased pink.  “Thanks,” the man murmurs, and backs away, almost as if he does not want to turn away from Bull, as if he never wants the moment to end.  Bull snickers and tells him, “Don’t mention it, kid.”  Then he turns back to face Dorian, smiling.  Quickly, however, the smile dies, and he studies Dorian impassively for a moment before saying quietly, “Come with me.”

 

Sulkily, Dorian follows Bull’s broad back.  His boots squelch in the soft mud and he frowns more deeply, watching as the muck swells grotesquely around the soles of his boots.  Bull leads him through the crowds - still not thick, the first bands will not begin until mid afternoon, and the gates have just opened.  They head toward one of the smaller stages at the edge of the grounds.  Eventually, when they have reached the limits of how far they can go without flashing their credentials, Bull turns to Dorian.  His expression is unreadable, but the irritation in his voice is clear.  “Tell me everything.”

“What?  There’s nothing to tell.  What are you asking, exactly?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Dorian.  What’s got your face looking like that?”

“Are you kidding with me?” Dorian asks, his anger flashing hot and deep inside him, terror and unease making it worse.  “You have got to be joking.  You have the nerve to say that I’m playing dumb, when you were the one… you were…”

 

He cannot get the words out.  Thankfully, he supposes, Bull saves him the effort.  “Flirting?  Yeah.  But you can’t tell me you took that seriously.  I mean… fuck.” A pause, where they simply stare at each other, then Bull asks, “Dorian?” He sounds surprised, the irritation in his voice completely gone, replaced by a shamefaced kind of astonishment, “Dorian, kadan… I’m with you.  I lo…”

“Oh, you love me.  You love me, you love me.  Yes.  Well.”  He takes a deep breath in, tries to steady himself, but somehow it only makes the image of Bull’s broad hands on someone else’s bare flesh flare into his mind again and he feels his throat constrict.  “Maybe you should remember that, next time someone… someone asks you for an  _ autograph _ .  Or when an old boyfriend has you suggesting things.  Or…” but Maker, he cannot think,  _ stupid! stupid! _ echoing in his mind, but he has to say something, Bull is still looking at him, so he settles for, “...or anything like that.”  

 

“Is this still about ‘Taash?  C’mon, Dorian, you gotta…”

“I don’t have to do anything!  You keep professing to love me, and yet I know virtually nothing about you!  I don’t even know where you come from!  Anything!”  _ And your hopes, your dreams, your fears - I know nothing of them too. _  “Maker, Bull, you know I don’t know how to do this!  I have no fucking idea what you want from me!  And I hate this, I hate not knowing, never knowing when I’m going to fuck it all up, what I’m going to do that finally tips you over the edge...”

 

“Fair call.”  Bull nods, and the shamefaced expression is beginning to cloud over, to become angrier, “That’s fair, I guess, but I figured you could take a bit of subtlety.  Dorian, you’re better at this than you give yourself credit for, how many times I gotta tell you before you believe me?  And… Vashedan, Dorian.. all you gotta do is ask, if there’s anything you wanna know.”

Dorian’s mouth opens in astonishment.  “You have got to be kidding me,” he repeats slowly, “I’m not going to push you for information.  I… I want you to come to me, to tell me these things when you’re ready.  And…” he slows, bowing his head, then mutters, “And I know it’s selfish, but… I want you all to myself.  I… I’ve never had that before.”

 

Bull snorts.  “Dunno what to say to that.  Do you want this… whatever it is… is it just a novelty for you?  Am I?”  Dorian looks up sharply, and sees hurt as well as anger in Bull’s eye.  “I been that before.  It’s… not that big of a deal, I guess.  I just thought… maybe I could be what you needed, too.  But... ” and he pauses, clenches his jaw, and Dorian sees his hands are balled into fists.  “You know, maybe I just need a little time.  Maybe you do too.  We gotta sort our shit out, because this?  This… kinda sucks.”  Bull’s mouth turns down at the corners very slightly, and he sniffs.  Dorian remains silent, chewing on his bottom lip.  He folds his arms over his chest, and bows his head.  “Yes,” he says, very softly, and then looks up.

 

He sees that Bull is looking at him, very worriedly.  Dorian feels his eyes widen, wondering if this is the moment that Bull will say,  _ Maybe this is as good a time as any to end it _ .  He wants to reach out, to apologise, to say anything to make Bull… to make him understand, but he cannot.  There is some little part of him that will not let him.  Bull takes a deep breath in, and then releases it.  When he speaks again, Dorian hears in his voice a deliberate attempt at calm, which veneers a very real despair.  “So.  Uh.  You think we could have dinner together tonight?  Just me and you?  Were you gonna see Lily do her thing later?  We could come back, or I could drop you up here, if you wanted?”

Dorian nods, relieved somewhat, but still hesitant.  “I was going to.  And… and I’d like that.  I think…” he sighs, still looking at Bull, who scratches the skin under one horn quickly, that concerned expression not shifting for a moment.  “I think we need to have a proper conversation.  But… time.  Apart.  That sounds… valuable.  I… suppose.”

“You gonna be alright?  You got my number, ‘kay, you call if there’s…”

 

Dorian laughs quietly and shakes his head.  “Yes, O Mighty Protector.  I’ll be fine.  You’ll… you’ll do the same for me though, won’t you?  You’ll call, if you need me?  And Bull…”

“Yeah, Dorian?”

_ I love you, amatus _ , is on the tip of his tongue.  He opens his mouth, blinks twice and sighs, then closes it again.  It feels wrong, somehow, after this, their first real fight, to say it.  Is he supposed to say it?  He feels it, feels it strongly, and yet he cannot say the words.  Again, he wishes he knew more about how to do this in the proper style.   _ There is no right way,  _  he remembers Bull telling him, and smiles, a tiny half-smile, then shrugs.  “Be good,” he finishes, feeling bereft already.  They stand in silence for a moment, just looking at each other, then Bull nods once, and walks away.

 

Dorian stands in the melting snow, watching his retreating back.  Bull doesn’t turn around - once, Dorian thinks he might, and smiles, mouth opening as if he will say Bull’s name, the words  _ I knew you couldn’t be mad at me forever _ forming in his mind.  But he doesn’t.  The great horned head turns left and right, and then Bull veers sharply to the left and is lost within the crowd.  All around him he hears laughter, and can feel the excitement of others, the anticipation of a good time.  All he feels is a breed of resigned hopelessness.  He sighs, turns to the right, and begins walking.

 

The crowds are thickening, everywhere people. As they had entered, Dorian had marvelled at the terrain, and how Skyhold, the festival, seems to be designed to make the awkward mountainous landscape as much a part of the proceedings as the music itself.  Of course, this high up in the mountains, the roads are tricky, even in the summertime, and Dorian wonders at the feat it must take to wend a bus or the huge rigs which carry all the equipment necessary for a festival of this size over them.  The layout is comprised of three main stages and several smaller ones, dotted around a strange natural formation of levelled platform type protuberances in the Frostback Mountains, the range which chases the border between Orlais and Fereldan.  Dorian particularly had noted the location of stage one, where Thrown will - and his chest still swells with pride when he thinks of it - where they will close out the festival. 

 

When one enters the main gate, one is greeted with a strange mixture of efficiency and chaos - for those that are only coming for the day, a grey wristband, emblazoned with the Skyhold logos.  For those attending for the whole four days, a purple wristband, the logo printed in pale grey, the flexible plastic studded with bright silver glitter.  Artists and performers, as well as crew and press, are issued a black wristband, shot through with purple and silver glitter, as well as other credentials.  There are sideshows of fire eaters and acrobats, strange costumes, people wandering around with placards and banners, merchandise stands, a panoply of the garish and peculiar.  Many people camp, either on the grounds of Skyhold itself (Dorian had shuddered when he had seen the ranks and ranks of portable toilets, knowing full well that their unholy stench will be almost more than he can bear by the end of the second day), but there are also a great deal staying further down the mountain, in Haven.  Haven, of course, is where the bands stay, or most of them at least.  No, not for the likes of Viktoria, the divine, dreadwolf or Knives Where You Least Expect Them is the canvas-and-sleeping bag set.

 

Dorian has always enjoyed festivals - though often the sound is difficult, and the bands all have shorter sets, and the crowds are unpredictable at best, there is a romanticism about them, an air of carnival that seems to make him feel as if all is deliriously topsy-turvy.  He smiles slightly, remembering the first festival that Tempus had played at.  They were so far down the card that they were almost indecipherable on the poster, but Dorian remembers seeing the band name there, remembers the swell of pride in his chest.  Silex had been the name of the festival, one of the medium sized events that Dorian had attended as a fan in the past, always held in the Valarian Fields, under the shadows of the High Reaches range.  It had been fascinating, and beautiful, the one day they had had there; he chuckles as he remembers Regilius’ look of panic when he had surprised him mid-rut with a rather plain dwarf in the back of their tour bus.   _ What goes on tour, stays on tour _ , he had assured Regilius later, and laughed.

 

And all of a sudden, it is almost too much.  He wants to be with Bull, wants to share his observations with him, describe Regilius’ face to him, hear that booming laugh.  He frowns and casts about himself for somewhere, anywhere that looks as if he might be able to snatch a moment to get himself under control, perhaps even make a quick call, just to hear Bull’s voice again.  There is a row of shipping containers behind a stage he has just finished walking past, so he flashes his laminated card and his black wrist band and the security guards let him through.  Dorian walks down the aisle between the ranks of the temporary structures, choosing one at random, after showing two more guards his passes.   He sighs into the dim light and pushes his hair backward, off his face.   _What will I do?_ he thinks to himself, sliding his back down the stack amplifier, Marshall emblazoned across it in curving script. Putting his elbows on his knees, he sighs again, and then hears a muffled slurping noise from behind the stack of amps.

 

Dorian frowns.  The noise comes again, accompanied by a cut off groan, and Dorian thinks he hears… is that..?  But the only people allowed back here are crew and…  _ Musicians, _ he thinks,  _ Pre-show nerves.  Post show celebrations, not that it’ll be that yet.   _ He grins, wondering who it is.  The amplifier next to him gives a faint tremour, and Dorian’s grin widens.  The tremour comes again and again, a rhythm now, solid, unhurried.  It’s all Dorian can do not to chuckle.   _ I know what you’re doing, _ he thinks, trying to resist the urge to peek between the gaps in the amplifier, then his smile changes to a slight frown when he hears a hissed phrase in what could only be Tevene.

 

Most of it is garbled, too quiet and deep for Dorian to make out properly, but he does recognise one word - lupa.   _ Who would this be?  _ He wonders as the stack continues to rock gently next to him.  The voice, which sounds like a man’s, the timbre very low, growls and then tells whoever he is with, in Common this time, “What a filthy whore.  Look at that pretty mouth, wrapped around my cock.”  The voice grunts, and Dorian hears a second voice whine as the first tells it, “Such… uh, such a pretty, pretty little whore.  I’m going to come, uh, uh…” and the voice moans, then resumes, “I’m going to come right on that pretty face of yours.”

 

There is a louder slurp, then a very faint pop and the stack stops rocking.  Dorian, transfixed by what he is listening to, feels his eyebrows rise as he hears Hawke’s unmistakeable voice mutter, “Fen, no, come in my mouth…”

 

It had been rather fun, listening to people he didn’t know having sex.  But Hawke… Hawke is  _ married _ .  To Anders, who is not only rather a hero of Dorian’s, but who Dorian hopes would become a friend.   _ And as a friend… what should I do? _  Should he stop it?  It sounds as if it is too far through to stop now, not really.  Quietly, he gets up, resolving to sneak away, but if he sees either Hawke or Anders later… Well.  That is a question for later.  He is not so naïve that he does not know that, well, this is acceptable for some.  But it just… it seems so… so  _ wanton _ , really.   _ And disrespectful.  I mean, I could have been anyone!  And poor Anders, if he does not know, then… Fasta vass, this is the worst way to find out. _  He finds himself feeling rather angry at Taliesin, cannot help feeling crushed also - the hope that he has been nurturing since he knew this was something he might hope for, that he could somehow imitate the great, shining love affair to end all love affairs has lost its shimmer, lost to the mud and trampled snow of Skyhold.   _ Stupid to hope, _ he thinks to himself and sighs unhappily.

 

Quickly, Dorian rises and walks slowly out into the sunshine again.  He cannot resist a glimpse into the container as he walks past, sees in a moment Fenris’ white hair hanging, his hands fisted roughly into Hawke’s black locks, the way he drives his hips forward into Hawke’s face, the clutch of Hawke’s hands around the backs of Fenris’ tight black leather pants.  Then he hurries away, circling around the container and walking quickly down the other side of the row.  Maker, this… he does not know what to think, anger and sadness and disappointment mingle in his chest.  He frowns, thinking  _ there is no hope for love.  Better to give it up now.   _ The mud squelches beneath his boots and his mind shows him Bull’s concern, lets him feel Bull’s gentle hand upon him, the scarred lips on his cheek, his neck, and he shakes his head, smiling.  As if they would have to tred the same path - as if he would make the same errors Taliesin had made.   _ Nothing is foreordained; we’re making it up as we go _ , he thinks, and immediately resolves.  He smiles to himself, and walks back the way he had come, back toward the music.

 

-|||-

 

The sun slinks toward the opposite horizon.  Dorian seen a slew of different bands today, among them Seven Miles to Hunter Fell; Echoback; the oddly endearing Pile of Filth.  He has gone backstage again, is really just wandering vaguely, wondering what Bull is doing, wanting to text him.  As lost in thought as he is, he is not looking where he is going, and doesn’t think much of the thump on his arm until he hears, “Look where you’re going, idiot.”

 

“I’m sor…” Dorian starts to apologise, one hand going to his chest.  Then his eyes narrow, and he says, “Fenris.  Hello.”  He cocks his head, then addresses the elf in Tevene, “I saw you before.  With Hawke.”

Fenris sneers and shakes his head.  He speaks in Common, slowly, the disgust in his tone more vicious with every syllable, “What’s your point?”

“So,” Dorian continues, still in Tevene, the language crisp and comforting to him, somehow, “I saw you fuck his face.  And if I see Anders, I’m going to tell him.”

 

Fenris opens his mouth slightly, and simply stares at Dorian.  Those grey eyes burn into Dorian’s, and Dorian scrunches his mouth to the side, standing a little straighter and affecting a nonchalant attitude that he does not feel.  He looks at his nails idly, then looks at Fenris as he raises an eyebrow challengingly.  Fenris continues to stare at him, his expression resentful.  Suddenly, he stoops, putting the hard bodied guitar case he carries on the ground gently.  He straightens and looks at Dorian again, who shuffles a little under the hard gaze.  

 

“Tell him then,” Fenris says, “As if you know exactly what is happening in other people’s lives.  As if you have any right.” He pauses, and Dorian sees his fists clench.  Although Fenris is physically smaller than he is, there is an unmistakable aura of power which swells around him.  “I know your type.  Far too well.  But you would do well to take your threats elsewhere.  I will not warn you again.”  Fenris does not drop his gaze or make to move away, and Dorian frowns.  

“You know  _ my type _ ? You know nothing of me.  And as for threats…” Dorian blusters in Common, then switches back to Tevene, “I don’t  _ threaten _ .  I act.”

 

Fenris almost snarls, though Dorian also notes his ears droop slightly.  For a second, Dorian thinks he’s about to attack, to simply launch himself forward, and he feels a sudden drop of guilt in his stomach.  This guilt is accompanied by the memory that Fenris too had broken his contract with Imperium, after long years of abuse of contract ( _ alleged abuse, _ some part of Dorian’s mind corrects without thinking, and he wonders where the sentiment had come from) and a slew of rumour and counter-rumour.  He opens his mouth, wanting to explain himself, needing to suddenly, but Fenris bends, picks up his guitar case and tells him, “Do what you want.  You… your type always does.”  Then he turns and stalks away.

 

“Fenris… wait, I…” Dorian holds out his hand impotently, then the fingers curl in on themselves and he feels himself shrinking, wavering.  He watches Fenris walk away, feeling guilty, defensive and a little angry -  _ what an idiotic thing to say!  _ he chastises himself. It is as he’s standing there, watching as Fenris’ back retreats along the narrow aisles of canvas tents and steel shipping containers that he hears a chuckle from behind his back.  Chagrinned that anyone could have heard the exchange, though certain that most could not decipher it, he turns.  

 

“Can I help you?” 

The woman he addresses is petite, blonde hair smoothed carefully away from her temples.  She is dressed in a rather strange fashion; billowing dark grey skirt, which flows to her ankles, the hem of which is speckled with mud.  A low-necked, long-sleeved black shirt, which Dorian wonders at, considering that this is what most in the dreadful South would call ‘high summer’.  She smiles at him, and he notes the small gap between her two front teeth.  Actually, Dorian reflects, she looks more like a librarian than anything associated with the bacchanale going on around them.  “I heard you speaking,” she says to him in Tevene, and he frowns, then raises an eyebrow in astonishment.  “It was so nice to hear a voice from home.”

 

Momentarily, Dorian is lost for words.  He takes a step closer to the woman, and puts his hand out.  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he addresses her, also in Tevene, “I’m…”

“Dorian Pavus, currently of Thrown from the Breach, though your talents are wasted on them, I’m sure.  Please, forgive me.  My name is Calpernia.”  There is a beat of silence between them as they shake, and Calpernia takes a small step toward Dorian, smiling at him conspiratorially, “If you don’t mind me saying,” she adds, “Though Thrown from the Breach are fine, I rather preferred Tempus.  So much more powerful, so much more thought provoking.  I particularly enjoyed the historical elements that you managed to include in the lyrics.  Beautiful.  Subtle.”  She lowers her eyes briefly, then raises them again, smiling slightly.  “Now, if only we could get you to come and work for us.”

 

Dorian inhales sharply.  Despite the compliments - or perhaps because of them - he is on his guard.  “And who would ‘us’ refer to, exactly?”

Calpernia laughs and shakes her head.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m one of the A&R agents for Venatori, which is a…”

“Subsidiary of Imperium Music, along with Ancient Evil and…”

Calpernia shakes her head, still smiling.  “Not any longer.  Ancient Evil and Venatori have…” she takes a deep breath, narrows her eyes and makes a shoo-ing gesture with her hand, “Parted ways with Imperium.  Much like yourself, I suppose.”

 

Dorian is silent.  Then he looks at her, and asks, in Common, “And what can I do for you, Calpernia?”

“I meant it when I said your talents are wasted with Thrown, you know.”  She speaks quietly, quickly, still in Tevene.  “We could offer you far more; a chance at a solo career, better venues, you could record where you wanted.  We would happily waive our rights fee, give it over to you.  The benefits to you would be rather…”  she pauses, smiling, and tells him, “Well.  They would be as befitting a musician of your stature.”

“Really?  And what would I have to do in return for all this…  _ benefit _ ?”

 

“Join us,” she tells him simply.  “That is all.  You need not even tell Inquisition.  We can handle any legal obligation you might have to them, I’m sure.”  Calpernia arches her neck, looks at him down her nose, watching him closely.

 

And for a moment, he considers it.   _ A solo career, _ he thinks.  The money holds no real attraction for him, but the control certainly does.  To own the rights to the music that he writes… that too holds an appeal which he cannot deny the strength of.  And yet… “No, I’m sorry, Calpernia.  I’m very happy, thank you, just where I am.”

 

She narrows her eyes slightly, and shrugs, her smile fading.  “Think about it, Dorian.  That’s all I ask.”  She holds out a small rectangle of card to him, and he takes it, more out of politeness than anything else.  “I’ll be here until day two with Rebel Warden and Gods of Silence and Beauty.  I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”  

Dorian murmurs something non-committally, and Calpernia’s smile flashes brilliantly, viciously at him.  She inclines her head, and turns, telling him over her shoulder, “Until we meet again.”

“Yes,” he says to her retreating back, “Until then.”  He studies the card closely, the emblem of the snakes head, fangs bared in profile standing out starkly, white on a dark blue field.  Then he puts it in his pocket and sighs.

 

-|||-

 

Dorian and Bull agree, through a series of messages, to meet at the main gate at five thirty.  Dorian stands near the entrance, watching as a group of young female elves, obviously here for the Viktoria, the divine performance due to the amount of glitter on their faces, reel around together, singing and laughing.  He sighs, looks at his phone.  5:47pm, the numbers on the screen tell him, and he sighs again, then jumps at the heavy hand on his shoulder.

 

“Hey,” Bull greets him softly, “sorry.  Never thought I could sneak up on anyone, but I guess…”

“I was lost in thought,” Dorian waves his hand airily, trying to compensate for how awkward he feels.  Bull smiles at him tensely, and they begin walking out toward the exit.  There are a few others straggling out with them, and Dorian tenses when he sees a small knot of people stare at them and nudge one another, grinning.  It’s been a long day, and he doesn’t feel like engaging with fans, so he walks a little faster.  Thankfully though, they do not approach.  “So,” Bull begins, “What do you want to eat?  Where do you wanna go?”

 

Dorian sighs, allowing his shoulders to sag.  “Actually, Bull, all I really want to do is to go back to the hotel.  Perhaps get room service?  Would that… would that be alright?”

“Yeah,” Bull tells him, sounding relieved.  “You know, kadan, that sounds kind of great.”

They walk in silence for a while, the noise of the festival receding slowly.  The silence between them is uncomfortable, feels like a barrier, and so Dorian says the first thing that comes into his head, although he knows, or thinks he knows, what the answer will be.  “You know,” Dorian says quietly, and feels Bull’s eyes upon him, “You never did tell me what that meant.”

 

He does not clarify what he means, and it seems that Bull does not need him to.  “Kadan.  It’s a term of endearment.  Qunari… we don’t have, y’know, families, stable units like human societies have.  Which is kind of good, in a lot of ways - less chance for the misunderstanding and tensions that human family units seem to have, more chance for the individual to feel part of the whole structure of society, not so locked into a small grouping.  Small groupings have their place in the Qun, but they’re not the norm, and shouldn’t be the individual’s focus. But…” and here Bull smiles, “We’re still… affectionate.  We still have some people we like better than others.”  He shakes his head.  “The Tamrassans come down pretty hard on anyone exhibiting a particular favourite.  Even the Ben-Hassrath, if it gets… y’know, real bad.  A focus on any one individual is dangerous. Ahh,” Bull sighs and flaps a hand, “You probably don’t give a shit about any of that.”

 

Dorian snorts and frowns up at Bull.  “No, no please, continue.  It’s fascinating.  I’m just not sure how it relates to…”

Bull smirks and nods.  “Yeah, sorry, tryin’ to do context, I guess.  But anyway,  _ kadan _ means  _ where the heart lies _ .  It’s just…” He sighs, more a huff of breath than anything and rubs at the back of his neck, obviously struggling.

Dorian allows the silence to continue for a moment, then asks, very quietly, “Is it like… is it like…  _ amatus _ ?”

 

Bull looks at him, fishing the car keys out of his pocket as he does.  He shakes his head, and tells Dorian, “Dunno.  Maybe.  What does that mean?”

Dorian looks away from Bull, out over the mountains, back toward Haven.  He opens the door of the passenger side, and says, just before he slides into the seat, “It means  _ beloved. _ ”

 

Overhead, from where he sits in the passenger seat, Dorian hears Bull say, “Oh.”  Then the car rocks alarmingly as Bull settles himself into the seat beside Dorian.  The car was made, rather obviously, for humans, and Bull winds down the window before he shuts the door so that one of his horns might protrude from it.  Dorian smiles at him, and Bull glances at him sidelong and smiles back.  “Nah,” he tells Dorian, “I mean, you can use it for friends as well.  It’s not just…” he swallows, “it’s not just for lovers.”

 

“Oh.  Well.  I could have a beloved  _ friend _ , you know.  It wouldn’t be impossible.  Someone who was very dear to me.  Certainly not outside the realms of possibility.”  He slumps a little into the cool vinyl of the seat, and Bull glances at him again, but says nothing.  

 

They ride in silence, all the way back to the hotel.  Up, through the hotel, in the elevator, until finally they stand in front of the plain white door for a moment while Bull fumbles a little with his keycard. Dorian is rather alarmed to see that Bull’s hands are shaking, just the faintest of movements, and he looks at the qunari, trying to figure out what it is that might be making him… what?  Nervous?  Perhaps.  Finally, Bull succeeds in pushing the card home, and the door unlatches.  Bull looks at Dorian for a moment, under the fluorescents of the corridor, and then twists the handle, pushing the door in.

 

Dorian’s mouth drops open.  There, in Bull’s room, has been set a table for two; candles flicker on the table, and on every nearby surface.  Ambient music plays quietly in the background, and there is a beautiful arrangement of white orchids on the bureau.  Dorian stares into the room, then looks at Bull, who grins at him worriedly.  “I… thought this’d be okay.  As a first date, you know?  Because we never did that normal guy stuff.  Dates, hand holding, kissing and stuff.  I wanna do that stuff.  If you want to.”

 

Dorian shakes his head in astonishment, his mouth still open slightly.  “But how did you… It’s… it’s…” is all he can manage, and because words will not suffice, not now, not with this deep wellspring of emotion that is surging within him, he reaches up, pulling down on Bull’s horn, bringing their faces closer together.  They kiss, there in the hallway, tentatively at first, and then more deeply; passionate, not just mouths but whole bodies pressed against one another, hands and waists and thighs; flesh against flesh, their hearts beating against one another in that most primal of rhythms.  Finally, Bull breaks the kiss, and raises an eyebrow, smiling.  “Isn’t it meant to go after the date? The kissing bit?”

“Are you complaining, brute?”

“Nah.  But I might need another sample, just to be sure.”

Dorian smiles, and kisses Bull again, much more gently this time.  Finally, he pulls back, and Bull moans slightly, hands around Dorian’s waist pulling him tighter against his body.  He raises an eyebrow and asks, “Did you want to eat sometime this age?”

 

“Honestly?  No.  I could do this all night.  But…”  Bull pauses, then laughs quietly and shakes his head.  “I wanna talk with you.  I wanna hear everything about everything, ‘kay?  And Dorian…”  Bull swallows, and tells Dorian, “I never wanna stop.  I wanna talk with you every day, about everything, always.  Nothing’s off limits with me.”  He smiles, relinquishes his hold on Dorian’s waist, “But hey.  Let’s go eat.”  His smile broadens, and he shrugs, “Gotta keep our strength up, right?”

 

Finally, Dorian puts down his knife and fork, and sighs.  “That was excellent,” he tells Bull, reaching for his wineglass.  Bull beams across the table at him and chuckles.  “Well, y’know.  We’ve been eating together for a while now.  I got to know the stuff you like.”

Dorian sighs happily and eyes a stray olive on the side of his plate.  Regrettably, he cannot eat another bite - crisp pastry, delicious spiced meat, fresh stone fruit - everything he had commented on that he’d especially liked from the food they’d eaten on tour.  “How on earth did you get to be so observant?  Was it just a natural thing?  Or…”  Dorian trails off, wondering at the expression which is suddenly occluding Bull’s face.  The smile is gone, in it’s place a rather haunted expression.  Dorian frowns and begins, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

 

Bull shakes his head.  “I been putting off telling you for a long time, I guess.  And you were bound to ask.”  He snorts a little, and scratches the stubble under his jaw.  “‘Taash told me he’d said you should ask me about Lies.  Why they kicked me out.  I’m kinda amazed that you lasted this long without asking about it.  And, y’know, this isn’t the full story - there’s really no such thing.  But this is my version of it, anyway.”

 

“Lies was a front.  The whole of Triumvirate, the record label, that whole deal is. All of us were trained as… I don’t know if  _ spies _ is the right word, but it’s close.  Lot of it was about preparing the rest of Thedas, makin’ ‘em more receptive to the message of the Qun - a kind of soft diplomacy, if you like.  But it was also to feed information to Par Vollen, serve as a point of contact for sleeper agents.”  He laughs a little and tells Dorian, “Yeah, we did all that secret messages in songs shit too.”  

 

Bull sighs, shakes his head.  “In Lies… we each had different skills, different methods we were trained in.  I mean, that’s obvious.  But… we all had weaknesses too.  With Gatt, it was his anger; before Lies, he’d been in the re-education camps.  He came out of that stronger in his faith, but way more brutal in his methods.  Salit was too fucking crafty for his own good, but he and Tallis worked real well as a double unit.  Tallis… she was brilliant, man, mind like a steel trap.  Not a drop of pity in her, though.”  Bull sighs again, looks at his hands, “She could act it.  But she had no real eye for when she could use the velvet glove instead of the iron fist, you know?”

 

Bull pauses, still looking at his hands.  Dorian is silent, leaning forward in his seat, resting his chin on one hand.  He waits for Bull to go on and eventually, he does.  “It went on for years, this deal.  And I mean, I’m the first to admit it, maybe I wasn’t as strong in my faith as I needed to be for that kind of work.  But I was trained for that shit, had been trained since I was able to speak, pretty much. And it came easy to me.  Maybe too easy.  Our front was that we were Tal-Vashoth, which kind of gave us a rep for being hardasses, which of course we worked up too.  But after a show up at Storm Coast, we were supporting for Grey Sword, ‘Taash’s old band, I get a visit from these… these two dudes.  No-one else in the room.  I’m being terminated, they tell me, I’m no longer part of Lies. I’m to report to Kont-aar for recommissioning.  Fuck that, I tell them, and this one guy, this fucking viddathari, he tries to… he…”  Bull takes a deep breath, then continues, “He tried to stab me, Dorian.  And I don’t know what came over me after that, but I remember… it was like waking up, but… there was just blood everywhere.  I didn’t have control any more.  And I was no better than those renegade fucks, cast out, abandoned by everything I had ever known, everything I had relied on.  I went from having a unit that I loved, people around me that I knew in every respect, to having nothing.”  Bull pauses, then looks up at Dorian.  “I lost everything that I held in high regard, because I was the only one being true to myself.  I’m never gonna let that happen again.”

 

Slowly, Dorian sits back in his chair.   _ How could they do that to him?  He would have given them anything _ . He feels immense pity for Bull, but something more as well, a species of strange anger.   _ I’m angry for him, _ he thinks, astonished,  _ I’m angry on his behalf.   _  He takes a breath and smiles shakily.  “Well,” he tells Bull, “I’m very glad to hear it.  But you know sometimes… it’s not you.  Sometimes… other people take that choice away from us.”  He reaches across the small table, takes Bull’s hand without a hint of hesitation.  “You’re  _ good _ , Bull.  Desperately, ridiculously, unfathomably good.  And you think the world of people, despite all the evidence to the contrary.  Maker…”  Dorian pauses, bites his lip and then tells Bull bitterly, “I love you so much.   I’m so sorry for this morning.  It was so stupid…”

 

“Dorian,” Bull says, and Dorian sees with some surprise that Bull’s eyes are rather wet, “Dorian, baby, we both fucked up there.  I don’t know how to do this any more than you; I meant it the other night when I said we gotta make it up as we go, do what’s right, what feels right for us.  We gotta trust each other, as much as we can.  I know it’s hard,” he adds, and squeezes Dorian’s hand.  “I know.  But even if we build up to the rest, know that whatever happens, you’re it for me now.”  He touches the point on his chest above his heart with the hand not holding Dorian’s and tells him, “Kadan.  Right here.”

And Dorian’s heart swells as Bull looks at him seriously and tells him again, “Right here.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rehersal. Two bands play. And a terrible, yet overdue argument ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New characters: Maddox, Delrin Barris  
> New tags: Crowds (plus, as usual, older tags apply)

* * *

“When all is said and done / Heaven lies in my heart / No slave to beliefs that propagate pain / When all is said and done / Heaven lies in my heart / This life is a gift to be lived and loved”

_ When All Is Said And Done _ , Napalm Death ( _ Smear Campaign _ , 2006)

* * *

 

 

Dorian strums absentmindedly on the guitar.  He is laying on the sofa, his head on Bull’s lap.  Bull is reading, a smallish hardcover book that Dorian is trying very hard not to look at. This is primarily because when he does, he begins worrying that Bull will accidentally drop it on his face, thereby breaking his nose and ruining forever his good looks.  The world outside is quiet, or at least he assumes so - it’s a little difficult to hear, this high up in the building.  Thrown from the Breach are meant to be rehearsing, but nobody seems in the mood for it.  So, under the cunning guise of ‘writing’, they have each been pursuing something different - Bull reading something called  _ Human, All Too Human,  _ which is causing him to grunt occasionally in an interested fashion.  Cullen is also reading, legs thrown over the armrest of the easy chair he occupies, nose buried in an old copy of Everite.  Cassandra is looking at something on her laptop.  It must be racy, because she seems to adjust her position in the seat every two minutes, while simultaneously trying to hide the fact that she’s doing it.   Most amusing.

 

Dorian smiles as he remembers the evening.  They had never made it to Viktoria, the divine.  Dorian had ended the day, arms bound behind him, gasping through the gag as his heart pounded, his mind a gorgeous field of white noise as Bull fucked him slowly through his second orgasm.  Looking back on it, he remembers it really only in sensation; the sweat on his back, the wet slide of cum on his thighs and belly, the sweet, soft burn of the cord on his wrists, how dry his throat had been.  Much better than a concert, any day.

 

He smiles, knowing it looks stupid and sappy, but unable to help himself.  Bull glances down then, away from the words on the page in front of him and grins.  “Think I know what you’re thinkin’ about,” he murmurs, then chuckles.  The sound is so easy, so delighted, that Dorian’s smile widens.  “Maybe,” he mutters back, “Maybe I was hoping for a repeat performance.”

 

Bull chuckles again.  Dorian finds himself accidentally playing the main riff from the song that he and Cassandra have been sporadically working on; it had changed quite a lot from its initial inception.  “Cassandra,” he says, and she looks at him over the screen of her laptop.  “Cassandra, do you think we could include the new song on our setlist for Sunday?”

She shrugs, “I don’t see why not.  Perhaps if we actually do some rehearsals on it today, we can get it up to performance standard.”

Cullen frowns, “Have we written a bass part yet?”

“You mean, have  _ you _ written a bass part yet.  And I don’t know.”  Cassandra raises an eyebrow, and smiles, “It doesn’t sound like it.”

“Oh… ah… yes.  I meant me, of course.”  Cullen grins at her and rises from his seat, throwing the old copy of Everite he’d been reading down upon it.  “Yes.  Uh.  I’ll just be going.  But definitely not to write a bass part.  I just… remembered something.  Incidentally, where is the music for that song?”

 

Dorian laughs and struggles to rise.  Bull puts a hand underneath his shoulders and pushes gently, and Dorian sits up properly.  “Thank you,” he tells Bull, then looks at Cullen and taps his temple.  “It’s all up here, I’m afraid.  Well, and over there,” he gestures at Cassandra’s head, “If you bring your bass, I can teach it to you?”

 

Bull sighs. “Whyn’t we all go down to the studio?  Be better if we do this all at once.  Sounds pretty simple, from my point of view.”

“Oh does it now?” Cassandra asks, “Well, if you’re so confident, then yes.  Hang on a moment, I just have to…” and she stares at her screen, clicks a few times and tells them, “Alright.  Ready.  Do you think Josie will have kept our space?”

“We’re meant to be there now, so I suppose she has,” Dorian shrugs.  “Come on.  Seems a shame to waste the day.”

 

-|||-

 

Dorian looks at the ends of his right hand; swollen and red, there are grooves along the end of each finger, each pad of hardened callus.  He sighs and asks the room in general, “What time is it?”

Cullen stops puttering on the bass, and leans forward.  He squints, and says, “Maker’s Breath, nearly three.  I better get going…”

“Oh, is that for LWS?  Yes.  Let’s go,” Cassandra says, and abruptly pulls the strap of her instrument over her head.  “Are you two coming?”

 

“Well,  _ I  _ was going to Fader.  But what are  _ you two _ going to, exactly?” Dorian wonders, smirking as he lays stress on the fact that Cullen and Cassandra had plans to go to something  _ together _ , then he remembers.  “Oh!  Last Warden Standing.  You know, I never did get to see them with you in Denerim.”  He looks at Cullen and smiles, “It would be good to, finally.  If you don’t mind having me along, of course.”

Cullen looks puzzled and switches off the amplifier.  “Why would it bother us, having you along?”  He pulls the lead out of his bass and throws it on the ground, then lifts the instrument over his head.  “Yeah, it would be good to see them with you.  I mean, if you like Bees!, you’ll probably like LWS.  I kinda forgot that I’d asked you to that gig.  Seems so long ago, now.”  He kneels down, and carefully puts the pearl-grey and black guitar back into it’s case.  Then, still kneeling on the floor, he sweeps his long hair off his collar and looks from Dorian to Bull, “So I guess you’re coming too, Bull?”

 

Bull is standing, twisting behind his kit.  Dorian watches him, silently, unable to help the concerned expression that creases his brow and makes his lips purse.  He knows that look - Bull is in pain.  “You know,” he says, and looks apologetically at Dorian, “I’m gonna stay back, I think.”  He flaps a hand in Dorian’s direction, and smiles.  “Go on.  You guys have fun.”

“Bull, if you…”

“Nah, I’m fine, Dorian.”  Bull’s smile widens and he chuckles, “Look, don’t make me feel like more of a grandpa than I already do, okay?  What’s the saying?  The mind is willing but the flesh is weak?  I gotta rest my knee.”

 

“Well… if you’re sure,” Dorian tells him, and takes a step closer.  From the corner of his eye, he can see Cassandra smile at Cullen, and beckon him out of the room.  He sighs, hearing the door close quietly behind them, knowing they will wait for him in the foyer.  “Wouldn’t you rather we had a quiet night in the hotel?”

Bull grins, “Yeah, ‘course I would.  But…”  His face clouds over, and he touches Dorian’s cheek, very lightly, then continues, “Culls and Cass are gonna go see LWS, with or without us.  And… I know that band meant a lot to Cullen and to Lee.  Look, I might just be being paranoid, but I need to make sure that Cullen’s gonna be alright.  That things aren’t gonna get stupid.”

“Cullen doesn’t need babysitting, Bull.  And even if he did, Cassandra could handle Lee Samson.  He’s not  _ that  _ tough.”

Bull laughs a little.  “I’m not saying that, kadan.  And I’m not saying Cass couldn’t handle it.  But… I would feel better.  Koslun’s Tome, I’d feel better if I was there myself but…” He sighs and flexes his knee, frowning down at it, then shrugs.  “If Lee  _ is _ there, and if shit  _ does _ get real… I need to know someone’s gonna be there to help him out.  Someone who cares about him.  I can’t do much like this.”  Bull snorts and raises an eyebrow, then mutters, “Gettin’ old and past it, I guess.”

 

“Bull, no, no…”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t need to humour me.” Bull laughs and shakes his head.  “Go on.  You’ll like LWS.  And Bees are playin’ this afternoon too.  You go now, you can probably catch ‘em.”

“Oh!  Oh, well…” 

Bull leans forward slightly, reaching over his kit, and takes a handful of Dorian’s t-shirt.  He smiles as Dorian squawks, “Don’t, you’ll stretch it…”

“Like you don’t have a million more,” Bull says, and his voice is husky with want.  He kisses Dorian, and Dorian moans a little, eyes closing, his hand blindly groping for Bull’s shoulder, feeling the muscles tensed there.  Their lips move on one another’s, warm; a slip of wet tongue and Dorian moans again.  Finally, Bull pulls back slightly, releasing his hold on Dorian’s t-shirt.  “Tell me all about it when you get back, okay?”

Their faces are very close together, and Dorian feels the hot gust of Bull’s breath on his face.  He opens his mouth, draws breath and laughs a little, under his breath.  “You can count on it.”

 

At the artists’ entrance, they are stopped, checked for their credentials.  The snow has melted further, leaving the entire grounds absolutely awash with mud.  The sky has clouded over also, and it looks as if it will rain.  “Typical,” Dorian mutters, and Cassandra looks at him and asks, “What was that?”

“Just the weather.  It’s always repugnant…”

“Compared to what you’re used to, I’m sure it would be.  Can we flip the record now, Dorian?  I’m bored of hearing how shit the South is.”

“And believe me, I’m bored of telling you.  You have to agree…”

“That there’s no place like home?  Of course, some people think that.  But I personally love not being beholden to  _ home _ .   _ Home _ is nothing but bad memories and stifling responsibility.  Much better to be out of it, in my opinion.”

 

Dorian frowns and shakes his head slightly.  It had never been in his plan to come south, not at all.  But the situation with Imperium and with his family had become so untenable that of course he had run - almost been  _ chased _ , that was certainly how he had felt - but he’d always assumed he’d go back.  There was so much he’d wanted to do, so many things that he was sure he could change, even in a small way.  He’s always believed that music can make change, or… maybe not make it, but be a catalyst for it, encourage people to change their views.  He sighs, and looks to the stage at his left, past where Cullen is walking.  He stops, listening, and the other two continue for a minute, and then stop when they see he means to listen.

 

Cullen walks back, stands next to Dorian.  “This seems weirdly familiar,” he begins to say, and Dorian promptly hushes him.  He  _ knows _ it seems familiar, but he’s trying to listen and place it.  The young elf on stage says clearly into her microphone, in a rhythmic cadence, “Them things that warn you, leave it be - that thing you bleed for, leave - all life is forward, you will see - it just needs you to need it…”

Dorian struggles for a moment, then beams, “Harellan!”

“Hara-what?”

“Harellan!  They were playing at Bull’s apartment, in Wycome!  Well, not them, not live, but on the stereo.  I asked Krem about them, he said… uh… he said,” Dorian pauses, trying to get his memory under control.  Less pleasant memories keep swirling to the top, that awful fight with Cullen, for one.  Cullen seems to be thinking the same thing, because he shuffles his feet awkwardly and curls his hand around the length of his hair, pulling it away from the nape of his neck.  He looks toward the stage, a strange expression on his face, and Cassandra clears her throat.  “Come on,” she tells them, “let’s see who’s about.”

 

Everything is running behind schedule today.  They catch Sera sitting on an amplifier, kicking her heels against it, Dagna lounging beneath it.  “Wotcha,” Sera grins, “It’s Throwin’ Out the Breeches!”

Dagna sits up and grins, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her forehead.  “Thrown!  Did you guys come to see us?”

“Of course, Dagna,” Dorian lies smoothly, before Cassandra has a chance to be honest.  “But I thought you were meant to be on stage by now?”

“Fuckin’ timeslots a drag, innit?” Sera shakes her head, “Mid-afternoon, what a wreck.  An’ now, ‘cause of old Rebel Warden puttin’ that hole in their amp - what a bunch of arseholes, I’m tellin’ ya - the whole thing’s stalled out half an hour.  Fuckin’ criminal.”

“Still,” Dagna grins, “Gave us time to do some other things…”

Sera winks at her, then puts a finger to her lips, “Widdle, hush your mouth.  The walls have ears, or whatever.”  She looks up sharply at the little group of humans and tells them, “Shouldn’t be long now.  Been expecting the call…”

“Bees?” A woman with a clipboard and an earpiece has circled around the side of the stage, and beckons to them, “You’re on in five.”

“Aw, fuck me!  Five minutes!” Dagna exclaims, and hurries to her feet, “I gotta… oh shit, Sera, where’s my…”

“Don’t worry, Widdle,” Sera leaps lithely off the top of the amplifier, and hugs the drummer.  Dagna squirms in her grip, but relaxes slightly when Sera mutters, “Don’t worry.  It’s gonna be great, you’re gonna be great.  Okay?  You just do the thing like you do every time, and lemme do the rest.”

 

Sera relinquishes her hold on Dagna and they look at each other for a moment, smiling.  “Yeah, okay.  Okay,” Dagna says, and leans forward and up, kissing Sera on the mouth.  Her smile widens, and she says, “Help me find my sticks?”

“Yup. Follow me, ya cutie.”  Sera grins and releases Dagna, and they run together, holding hands, the tassels on Dagna’s outfit flapping with every stride she takes.  “Maker,” he hears Cassandra mutter, “They are almost too cute for words, aren’t they?”

 

Dorian laughs and puts his hands in his pockets.  “Rather.  Between the two of them, they give the phrase ‘riot grrrl’ quite a new definition.”

They go around the side of the stage, following the trajectory of the woman who had come to alert Bees to their on-stage time.  Passing through the series of barriers which keeps fans from the backstage area, they exit out into the crush of bodies which line the stage.  It is one of the smaller ones, down the hill from stage one, and across the grounds from a small carnival-esque space, which is full of the rickety and slightly ill-kempt versions of rides that travelling fairs usually have; the Haunted House, the Whirlpool, the rollercoaster.  Dorian hears whoops and shrieks of delight come echoing over the fields towards the stage, and he wonders if there could be any more perfect place to watch Bees!Bees!Bees! perform live.

 

The five minutes seems to pass quite quickly.  The crowd which has developed around the stage seems in high spirits, and when Sera and Dagna trot out onto the stage, both grinning massively, there are erupts a loud cheer.  “Bees! Bees! Bees!” the crowd chant, and Sera flips them the bird, still grinning.  

“Yeah, yeah.  That’s Charade, she’s on keys and stuff today,” she says into the microphone, gesturing toward a slight woman with dark green hair, who waves cheerily at the crowd.  Sera’s guitar is emitting a strange low, growling hum which swirls from the amplifier nearest Dorian.  “Better late than never, right?”

“Right!  Sera, I love you!” screams a woman at the front, and Sera laughs.

“Sorry, baby, I’m already taken,” she smiles, and Dagna pops two beats on her kick pedal as if in agreement.  

“C’mon, Sera, we gotta go,” she reminds her bandmate, and Sera nods, “Right you lot, shurrup and listen to this…”

 

Sera nods to Dagna, and they grin mischievously at each other; together, they lean into their respective microphones and yell “Ugh!”.  The first track commences, bright and fast paced - almost so quick that it’s hard to concentrate on the lyrics.  Of course, Dorian knows better than to be simply caught up in the flash and overt silliness of the performance - he’s listened to this album,  _ Good Things in Wartime _ , on heavy rotation for months, has had time to recognise that underneath the surface lurks some very cunning and cutting lyrics.  Dagna sings back up, mostly just nonsense words, until Sera lunges forward to the microphone from where she’s been whirling with her pale teal Fender Explorer.   _ You like to throw up words… speak to us, see if we got germs… label us with junior terms… I’m a dog! I’m a pig! I’m a cow! I’m a bird!   _ The crowd is bouncing, dancing, and Dorian looks through the crowd from where they stand and thinks he sees Dalish and Skinner dancing in a circle together, laughing.  The mood is overwhelmingly good, buoyant even, and Dorian cannot help being swept up in it.   _ It’s not a dirty word!  It’s not a dirty word!  C’mon use it, dream it, choose it, own it, sign it, scream it - G - I - R - L, girl! _

 

It’s electrifying, watching them, makes it impossible for the audience not to be swept along with it.  They are a few songs in when Sera laughs into the microphone and wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm.  “We got a new one for ya, Skyhold.  Chazzy’s gonna play bass for this one, ain’t ya?”  Charade nods and shrugs, already putting the strap of the instrument over her head.  “Bit different to our last album, but this shit is where it’s at…”  She nods to Dagna, who gives a four-count again, and the song begins - much, much heavier than anything Dorian has previously heard.  “That girl thinks she’s the queen of the neighbourhood,” Sera sing-talks into the microphone, “She’s got the hottest trike in town…”

 

And the crowd don’t know what to do with themselves.  Half of them are enjoying it, dancing, nodding along, but the other half are looking at each other, seemingly perplexed.  As the song continues, the confusion seems to grow into something more like betrayal, and when Sera shrieks, “In her kiss, I taste the revolution!” there are more than a few angry faces in the crowd.   _ Oh come on, _ Dorian thinks,  _ you can’t be serious.  I thought the south was all rainbows and kittens for this stuff.  She’s never made any secret of her preferences… _ He turns his eyes back to the stage, where Dagna is still pounding on the skins of her drums - but it is with a different air now, more determined, and it has to be said, more concerned.  He sees her eyes flick out, past Sera to the crowd, and the concern on her face grows.  She keeps singing backup, repeating the words,  _ Rebel Girl! Rebel Girl! _ , but her face is much darker now, wondering, worrying by the looks of things.   _ She didn’t think it was a good idea to perform this song, _ thinks Dorian, and folds his arms over his chest.

 

He doesn’t see what it is, or where it comes from.  But something heavy, some dark shape, comes out of the crowd, flies up and hits Sera just over her left eye.  She cries out, reels backward, hands going to her face, leaving her guitar to squeal with feedback as if in some kind of sympathetic protest.  Dorian winces, and hears Cassandra say, “No!”.  He watches, appalled, as Dagna drops her sticks and runs the three or four paces toward Sera - but as she does this, Sera has taken her hands away, revealing a large, bleeding gash over one eye.  “Who was the fuckin’ shite for brains that threw that!  Who are ya?!  Come ahead then!”  And she makes as if she will throw herself into the crowd, which is swirling, Dorian can see arms being thrown as if in punches, see and hear security both trying to find the culprit and to quell the sudden violence.  Dagna has her arms around Sera’s waist, Sera who is still trying to fling herself into the fray, her blood trickling down into her eye, Charade is there as well, and Dorian feels a touch on his arm.  “C’mon,” Cullen tells him, almost shouting in the ruckus, “We gotta go, Dorian…”

“What about Sera, we can’t just…”

“Dorian,” Cassandra tells him sternly, “We have to go.  They have all the help they need.  What good can we do here?”

 

Dorian blows an irritated breath out his nose - he hates not being able to help.  He remembers Sera laughing in the recording studio at Inquisition, how easily her initial mistrust of him was replaced by something that could have developed into friendship, and feels as if he is abandoning her.  “But…” he begins, but Cassandra is frowning at him, and Cullen pulls at his arm, pulling him back the way they had come.  After a moment’s resistance, Dorian acquiesces, following Cullen back through the wings.

 

They trudge through the mud, the well trodden pathway now a sea of muck between the canvas and steel.  There is a lot of rigging around the stages, and noise everywhere - crowd noise, people laughing, the whoops and far-off tinkling of the music from the fairground.  Cassandra and Cullen walk ahead, and Dorian follows them, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed in thought.  Really, he should have stayed; this guilty weight is unpleasant to say the least, and he hears the echo of his judgement of himself -  _ selfish, selfish _ \- echo again in his mind.  He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulls it out.  It is a photo of Bull, his thumb up, white foamy bubbles around his chest, what can only be described as a shit-eating grin on his face.  The text message which accompanies it is three love-heart emojis and then  _ don’t worry no dick pix _ , and reading it, Dorian laughs.  Cassandra turns around, her expression quizzical, and he waves the phone and says, “Just Bull.”

 

She nods, tells him to hurry up, and so he runs three paces and then slows, to text Bull back, feeling almost as if he is willfully pulling against some kind of unseen leash that Cassandra, and by extension Josephine and Inquisition is exerting.   _ wouldn’t say no, _ he texts,  _ but want to see the real thing later. _  He smiles, pushes send, and then replaces the phone.  Then he hurries after Cullen and Cassandra’s backs.

 

-|||-

 

Last Warden Standing are going to be well received.  The backstage area is clogged with other artists - everyone who is anyone is there.  Dorian sees Anders, just a brief glance of his strawberry blonde hair, then he is lost, a face in the crowd once again.  Clarel de Chanson is there, Dorian sees, the rhythm guitarist for Rebel Warden, talking animatedly with Jean-Marc Stroud, LWS’s lead singer and guitarist.  The crowd are chanting and singing by turns under the sullen swell of dark grey clouds.  Dorian’s seen plenty of banners and t-shirts with the griffon logo of the band, and the crowd itself seems to be a living, breathing paean to their influence; it is a sea of dark blue and silver.  Stroud is tapped on the shoulder by a tall, broad shouldered blond man, a large half-sleeve design of Warrior Andraste on one bicep, other tattoos that Dorian cannot make out seeming to cover his arms and all the chest visible from his worn black singlet.  Dorian thinks he sees Carver Hawke just behind him, glowering at something the drum tech is doing.  Cullen breathes, “That’s him, that’s Al Theirin… Maker’s Breath…”

 

“Oh  _ finally _ , we’ve found your kryptonite, Cullen.  This is the only time that I’ve ever heard you get excited about meeting someone!” Dorian laughs, and elbows him in the side.

He looks at Cullen, who blanches.  “We’re not going to  _ meet him, _ meet him, are we?  I mean, we don’t have to.  It’d be weird, wouldn’t it?”  

“Why would it be weird, Cullen?”  Cassandra folds her arms across her chest and shrugs, “You like them.  He’s a hero of yours.  Didn’t you even go to the same school?”

 

“Yeah… but not for long.  He got kicked out, didn’t even do his final exam in the end.  I mean, he’s not gonna remember… shush!  They’re coming out!”  And indeed they are.  Carver runs across the stage, jumps up on the podium on which his kit sits, and the rest of the band strides out after him.  Maker, thinks Dorian, sneering slightly, they look a  _ mess _ .  He knows it’s punk, but honestly, this is just ridiculous.  Still, the crowd is erupting, and when he looks over to his left at Cullen, he is bouncing on the balls of his feet and grinning hugely.  Without preamble, apart from a shriek of feedback, Last Warden Standing begin playing.  Dorian doesn’t catch up with the lyrics until the second verse -  _ We’re fighting a war, we can’t win! They hate us!  We hate them! We can’t win, no way! _

 

Dorian looks at Cullen, standing there in the gathering dark.  He laughs very quietly, fondly really, at the expression on Cullen’s face.  Cullen is mouthing the lyrics, not singing (or at least, not so Dorian can hear), his eyes shining.  He is rather beautiful, actually, the mounting worries of the past seeming to evaporate as he watches this band of his youth perform.  Dorian, for himself, cannot really see the appeal.  Some punk and punk offshoots he likes - riot grrrl, some emo-hardcore, but this… not so much.  It’s just… grubby, and while there is certainly both musical and lyrical talent in this band (had he not, just a few nights previously, watched Carver Hawke hold his own with musicians that Dorian rates on the high end of the talent scale?), it’s not exactly apparent, at least at first listen.  He smiles when he considers how magnanimous he feels, almost as if he is indulging a friend’s love for something tacky and a little garish, simply because of the fact that they are friends.

 

-|||-

 

The crowd is still going; loud hardly does them justice.  The rain has begun while Last Warden Standing had performed, pelting down, but from what he can see of the crowd, they do not care. He smiles as LWS troop off-stage, waving and laughing with the crowd.  Cullen looks at Dorian, makes a strange face, and massages his cheeks.  “Makers’ Breath,” he repeats, and sighs, “I think I can finally die happy now.  They were bloody brilliant.”

He grins at Dorian, then his eyes slide over Dorian’s shoulder, a little to Dorian’s left, and his face falls.  Dorian watches silently, confused at the sudden change, and Cassandra puts her hand on Cullen’s shoulder, leans in to mutter, “You don’t have to talk to him, you don’t…”

 

“Len.”

Dorian turns.  Lee Samson stands not four paces away from them, underneath a scaffold, in the gap between a back up amplifier and technical rig.  He is flanked by a strange man with a mark on his forehead, a tattoo or brand shaped like a holy starburst similar to the tattoos on Cullen’s arms, and a dark-skinned bald man with piercing red eyes.  This man is a little taller than Samson, broad and muscular, but Dorian sees lines of scabbed scratches on his arms and smells that same unpleasantly sweet smell coming from the little group.  He also seems to have bitten his lip badly at some stage, as there is a line of scab on his bottom lip, which shines wetly in the remnants of the stage lights which filter back here.  

 

“What do you want, Lee?” Cassandra asks, but neither Lee or Cullen respond.  It seems to go on for an age, this silence between them, then Lee says, very quietly, “I’ll catch you guys up, alright?  G’won, Barris - wouldja take Mads back, get him sorted for me?”  

“I can do it myself, Raleigh,” the man with the mark on his forehead says blandly and Lee smiles.

“Yeah, I know.  Just humour me, huh?  This once?”  He leans toward the man conspiratorially, and mutters something which Dorian doesn’t catch entirely, though he hears, “...after Del, that’s why…”

 

The man frowns slightly, then says, “I understand.  Delrin and I will make a connection, and meet you after you talk to Cullen Rutherford.  I still do not understand what this will achieve, but I respect that it will make you feel better.  Good bye, Raleigh.”

 

“‘Bye, Mads,” Lee says and sighs.  He watches as both men walk away, then looks at Cullen, and Dorian sees his throat work as he swallows.  He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Cullen speaks.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Lee.  I said everything I was going to say years ago.”

“Right.  But you never gave me much of a chance to talk, didja?  I get you don’t wanna talk to me, but you could at least listen.”

 

Dorian looks at Cullen.  His eyes are hard, staring at Lee as if it will somehow hurt him to tear his eyes away.   Eventually he chokes out, “Go on then.  Say whatever it is you’re going to say.”

 

“Right,” Lee says, and then there is silence.  It goes on for an age, this tiny knot of quiet in amongst the noise and activity going on backstage.  A roadie shoves Dorian in the back accidentally, carrying a bunch of wound up leads, and the man frowns at him, pauses to ask, “What are you lot doing back here?  We got work to do.” Without waiting for Dorian’s reply, the man is off, too busy to be polite.  Dorian looks at Lee’s face, stony but curiously vulnerable, his mouth open slightly, in the red eyes some kind of terrible fragility, and then looks at Cassandra.  She glances back, shrugs, then looks back to Lee.  Her eyes narrow, and she seems about to say something, almost to physically haul Cullen away if that’s what it takes, when Lee says, “You left.”

 

“Yes.  I did.  You know why, too.”

“Yeah.  Well, I know why you  _ said _ you were gonna leave.  In that… in that note you left.”  The emotions crossing Lee’s face are strange.  “But in the end, you left me.  And you never even told me you were gonna do it, never even hinted that was how you felt…”

Cullen’s eyes widen and then narrow, and he yells, “I told you a hundred times!  The writing was on the fucking wall, Lee!  I’m not going to save you if you  _ won’t even bloody save yourself _ !” Lee hisses in return, clenching his fists and leaning forward slightly, seeming to vibrate with tension, “Was I ever in a position to fuckin’ do that?  I been rehabbed before, I tried to go it alone too, nothing works!  _ You  _ abandoned  _ me, _ remember, you were the one that left, I had no choice…”

“You could have come too, I told you that!  You could have come…”

 

“And abandon everyone else?  I wasn’t gonna leave fuckin’ Otto, he was a wreck as it is!  And after Redoubt closed up, you know White Chant reckoned there’s no future in metal, so they fuckin just let us drift.  And I guess I could put up with that.  But it wasn’t just us - it was Hunter Fell too, and Babies, and all that lot.  We were made by them, by White Chant, we lived and died by their convenience, and the fuckin’  _ market share _ of our music in their eyes.  You didn’t just abandon me - you abandoned all of us.”  He sneers at Cullen then, and tells him almost viciously, “It’s hard to look back and see your past, see it full of holes, isn’t it?  You fuckin’ trai...”

 

Instinctively, Dorian puts his arm out, but it is not soon enough.  The ends of his fingers trail along the hem of Cullen’s t-shirt as he runs toward Lee, bringing his fist up as he goes.  As Dorian turns his head, following the motion of his arm, he sees in that fraction of an instant, the snarl on Cullen’s face, and it blazes into his mind, makes him try instinctively to cast a barrier between Lee and Cullen.  “Wait,” he hears Cassandra say, and he’ll never know if it is his hastily flung up barrier or the tone of command in her voice which makes Cullen slow just before he reaches Lee, just before his fist connects with the side of Lee’s face, as he is completing the condemnation  _ traitor _ .  It seems to hang in the air, even as Lee’s neck twists with the force of the blow, even as Cullen brings his arm back to strike again, taking a handful of the black cotton of Lee’s t-shirt.  “Cullen!” Dorian hears Cassandra shout, but it seems very far away, and he steps with a slight tearing noise that only he hears through the Fade to arrive facing Cullen, next to Lee.  

 

Cullen’s face is distorted with rage, but there is something else there too - guilt.  He hesitates, and Dorian takes the opportunity to put his hand out, stopping the incoming fist.  “Cullen,” he says quietly, and at the sound of his name, Cullen’s anger seems to break.  “I… I didn’t…”  he begins, and just behind him, Dorian hears Lee laugh.  

“You knew what you were doing.  Maybe I wanted you to do it, too.”  Dorian turns slightly, hears the thickness in Lee’s voice, the sound of tears just barely suppressed.  From the corner of his eye, he sees the bleeding cut underneath Lee’s eye, but nothing more.  “In the end, you left all of us to sink or swim.  I thought I knew you.  Hell, I even thought I loved you once.  But I guess… I guess that we’ve all moved on now.  Let me go, Len.”

“Lee,” Cullen mutters, “I…”

“I said,  _ let me go. _ ”

 

Cullen does.  Dorian feels the presence at his back move away, watching Cullen’s eyes follow Lee.  

 

“He’s right,” Cullen mutters, “Maker, oh Maker, he’s right…”

“Cullen.”  Cassandra says his name quietly, “We should get out of here…”

Dorian frowns, wondering, then becomes aware of the tight knot of people which surround them, the smart phones trained upon their little group.  He nods, takes the hand that is still around Cullen’s closed fist and uses it to pull Cullen’s arm over his shoulder.  “Come on,” he says, sounding even to himself forced and unhappy, “Time to make a call to Josephine.”

  
And with that, Cassandra begins shouldering her way through the tight group surrounding them, like carrion eaters with a scent for blood.  Dorian follows, still with Cullen’s arm over his shoulder, wondering at how heavy a burden one person can bear before they break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that is my all time favourite chapter. I mean, if I can't read it without getting shivery, having read it nine-thousand times already, I don't know how you lot are coping. Heh.
> 
> Anyway! Music for this chapter is...  
> Harellan's song is actually [The Beigeness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEiBdU0tFB0) by Kate Tempest  
> Bees!Bees!Bees! songs are actually [Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=muDd0LAFj_M) by Robots in Disguise and [Rebel Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOCWma5vOiQ) by Bikini Kill (chronologically inaccurate in this fic - Bikini Kill predate RiD by a long way)  
> Last Warden Standing's song is [Police Story](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjjnE89uhfc) by Black Flag (it amused me to think of Alistair as a Henry Rollins type...)
> 
> Oh! And Bull is reading Nieztsche. Because... reasons.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is comforted, but only a little. Dorian gets told off (again). Fader play, and bad things happen.

* * *

"I'm in the midst of a trauma / Leave a message / I'll call you back..."

 _Pigs in Zen_ , Janes' Addiction ( _Janes' Addiction_ , 1987)

* * *

 

Cassandra holds the phone away from her ear, and Dorian can  _ still _ hear Josephine's voice.  “I know,” Cassandra yells, “I know all that.”  She looks at Cullen, who is sitting next to Dorian on a box with his head in his hands.  She frowns, watching Cullen as she listens to Josephine’s response, then walks a little way away and talks to Josephine, more quietly.  Dorian rubs a circle on Cullen’s back and asks quietly, “Are you alright?”

 

“Uh huh,” Cullen mutters, then sniffs.  “I’m… I’m fine.”

_ Of course, _ Dorian thinks,  _ Of course you are.  Stiff upper lip, no problems here, who, me?  Having emotions?  No, no, you must be thinking of someone else. _ He sighs and rubs another circle into Cullen’s back.  He doesn’t offer anything more than this tactile comfort, this tiny touch to signify his care - he knows that Cullen doesn’t want to talk.  So they sit and Dorian ignores the people walking back and forth, those that curiously stare at them, those that mutter behind their hands.  He waits, and watches, and circles his hand over Cullen’s back, slow cycles of comfort.  What a hollow feeling it is.

 

Eventually, Cassandra returns to them.  “I’m to call her back,” she says ruefully.  “She wants to know if you want to stay - I told her I can take you back if you need it, or Josephine will come if Dorian wants to stay.”

“I can stay by myself, Cassandra, I’m not a…”

Cassandra laughs, “It’s less for your benefit than it is ours.  Bull would read us the riot act if we left you here on your own.”

Cullen is still silent, his head in his hands.  Dorian looks worriedly at Cassandra, who looks at him and shrugs.  She watches Cullen for a moment longer, then huffs out a breath through her nose.  “So?  Are you staying, or coming back?”

 

Still, Cullen is silent.  Then, after a moment, he raises his head and looks at Cassandra gravely.  “Staying.  I’m staying.  I’m gonna watch Fader.”  He smiles at Cullen and nods.  

“Well, come on then.  Let’s go.  Fader’s set’s meant to begin in…”

“Fifteen minutes,” Cassandra says, looking at the screen of her phone, and then tapping it, obviously planning to call Josephine.  She holds it to her ear, and while waiting for an answer says, “Down at stage one.  We’d better go quickly, if we’re going to catch it.”

Cullen rises, shakes out his hair and nods.  “Let’s go then.  Let’s go.”

 

-|||-

 

It seems that the backlog has effected Fader too; since Bees had played, it has extended to a full hour lag time.  As they approach the backstage area of stage one, they see a large stack amplifier teetering on the edge of the lift.  There is a concerted amount of yelling from the roadies and crew trying to guide it into position on the lift, several mages in the crew attempting a levitation.  Dorian watches, frowning, wondering why there had to be so many for such a simple task, when Cassandra sniffs.  “Purge,” she mutters and Cullen nods.  

“Yeah, not that long ago, either.  It’s the ambient effect that’s making those guys go all weird. Wonder who did it?”

Cassandra shakes her head.  “It doesn’t bode very well.”  She turns to Dorian and tells him matter of factly, “You might feel a little sick soon.  There’s been a magic purge in this area, recently, by the feel of it, and the latent effect is causing those guys,” she gestures at the crew, “not access their magic to the full capacity.”

 

“Oh,” Dorian says, and shudders slightly.  He cannot feel the purge at all, until suddenly, there it is, he does feel rather strange.  Still, it seems to be rather milder in effect than Cassandra had predicted.  Maybe, just maybe, never having experienced a high level purge until recently has left him with more resistance?  Wonders will never cease.   _ Finally _ , he thinks,  _ magocracy proved good for something _ .  

 

They mount the stairs leading up to the backstage area proper, and Dorian grins when he sees a familiar fluffy rabbit-eared hat.  “Cole!” he shouts, then amends, “SPIREGHOST!”

Cole turns and smiles, waves shyly.  Dorian sees Merrill over his shoulder, who looks puzzled for a moment, then,  _ fasta vass _ , he can hear her squeal from where they are standing.  She runs toward them, beaming delightedly, and tackles Cassandra in a huge hug which almost knocks her off her feet.  

“Cassie!  Culls, oh Dorian!  You all came to see us  _ again _ !   You must really, really like us!”  She grins delightedly, holding Cassandra’s hand.  Cassandra looks entirely uncertain about the whole thing, but Merrill appears oblivious to her discomfort.  She looks around and frowns, “Where’s Bull?”

 

“He couldn’t make it, but sends his love, of course,” Dorian states.  Well, Bull had done nothing of the sort, but still.  Social lubricant, he supposes.  

“Oh, no!  Is he alright?  I hope I didn’t make him feel weird last time…”

“No, no, Merrill, it’s not you, not at all.  He’s got a bit of an odd knee…”

“Oh!  I know  _ all _ about that.  Poor thing!  That’s the terrible thing about drumming - it’s so  _ so _ much fun, but a bit hard on the body.  I’ve got some salve, if you want to take it back, see if it will do anything for him?  I make it myself, for my back.”

 

“Thank you, Merrill.  That’s really very kind…”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry!”  Merrill’s face falls, and she slaps a palm into the middle of her forehead, “I’m such a dweeb - this is Cole!  Cole, this is Dorian, and Cassie, and Culls, they’re from Thrown from the Breach…”

“Merrill, we know,” Dorian laughs, and Cullen leans forward slightly, says quietly, “I don’t.  Hello, Cole.  It’s nice to meet you.  Were you… are you…”

“I’m lots of things,” Cole answers, just as gravely, then, as he takes Cullen’s hand to shake it, he bites his lip as if trying to stifle something, almost seeming to Dorian as if he is holding his breath.  This lasts a beat, only a few seconds, then all in a rush Cole blurts out, “You could hear the rats, the rats in the walls, wondering wrongly whether it was wrong.  It might have been wrong, but it was right, he was right, right there, in the moonlight.  Long hair on your face, shadow and light,  _ you said we couldn’t do this again _ .  But you did.  Again and again, twisting together, down into the red deep…”

 

Cole gasps and wrenches his hand away, staring at Cullen with wide grey eyes.  He clasps his hands together, and takes a step backwards.  “I…” he begins and swallows, wringing his hands together.  Cullen only looks at him, a pained expression on his face, confused beyond speech.  Cole seems to find his voice finally, and blinks, before telling Cullen, “I’m sorry.  The images were too strong.  I can’t help you.  Or him.”

 

There is a bright laugh behind their little group, and Dorian is roused from this most unsettling encounter.  He turns and baulks momentarily when he sees Hawke, standing a little further off, an effects pedal in one hand.  “I never thought I’d see  _ that  _ expression on your face, Rutherford.”  He snorts and rolls his eyes before saying mockingly, “There’s never a camera around when I need one.  Anyway, what are you doing to our pet DJ, to make him look like that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Cullen says, and clasps his arms around himself, looking at Cole with something like fear.  “I only said hello…”

 

“Mmm.  That’s all it takes, with you Templar types, I suppose…”

Merrill frowns at this and tells Hawke, “Tal, they only shook hands.  I don’t know what it is between you two, but can you  _ please _ stop being so mean to Cullen?  I know you’re stressed out…” she opens her hands in a wide gesture, looks at him placatingly, “We all are!  But we don’t make anything better by making people feel yucky.  The past is past.  Cullen’s trying to get better.  Can’t you too?”

 

Dorian cannot help it.  He raises his eyebrows and looks at Hawke.  Hawke catches his eye for a moment and purses his lips, then looks at Merrill.  “No,” he says simply.  “Merrill, have you forgotten what it was like in Kirkwall?  Have you forgotten the dawn raids in the alienage, the way they used to break down doors at four in the morning, hunting for any signs of illicit magic?  Have you forgotten hiding in those shitty tunnels when we knew there would be a pass made?  The way they’d be very fucking good at locking up kids, but they never found the guy who killed my mum?”  He clenches his jaw and glowers, gestures at her angrily with the pedal as he asks, “Have you forgotten Karl, and Feyn?”

 

“No, Tal, of course not.  Of course I haven’t, but…”

“That’s what it sounds like, Merry.  You know I love you, but you’ve got to learn to hold a fucking grudge.  It’s all that keeps people like you and me and Anders alive, sometimes.”  Hawke looks at Cullen and says, “I can’t stop you from coming to the show.” He snorts, then continues, “Well, I could, but I’ve got enough drama in my life already.  But stay the fuck away from me, alright?  I don’t want to see your face.”

 

Dorian is shocked.  It is one thing to acknowledge the past, one thing to never forget the wrongs done, the things that you’ve lived through. It is quite another thing entirely to revel in it the way Hawke appears to be doing, to use past events to manipulate others.   _ I love you, but _ , Dorian thinks, and his eyes narrow - it comes far too close to the sentiment that his parents expressed.   _ If you loved me, you’d change for me; if you loved me, you’d stifle who you are to make me happy _ .   _ You’ve had it too good for too long, Tal.   _ His thoughts must show on his face, because Hawke looks at him, puzzled, and then flaps his hand dismissively.  “Whatever.  Stay out of my way, Rutherford.”  He sniffs, looks Cole and says, “Anders is looking for you, but give us fifteen minutes. See ya, Cass, Dorian.”  With a final, icy look at Cullen, Hawke walks away. 

 

The little group silently watch as he departs, slamming the door to one of the green rooms behind him.  Dorian looks to Cullen to see his shoulders sag.  “That asshole,” Cassandra mutters, scrunching her mouth to the side.  

“Oh, oh please, he doesn’t mean it…” Merrill moans, clearly upset, and winds her arms around Cullens, holding his hand and putting her face against Cullen’s bicep.  She looks up into his face.  “I’m so sorry, he’s been in a bad mood since yesterday, as soon as we got here there’s been nothing but bad shit, and… and I’m so…”

 

“He wants to be the shield and the sword,  _ oh, my darlings, my darling boys _ ,” Cole mutters, as if to himself.  “He can’t do both,  _ be both _ , and it’s killing him.”  He sighs and looks at Cullen, “It’s no excuse though.  We all have troubles.”

 

Cullen curls his hair around his fist again and lowers his eyes, then looks up.  “You don’t need to apologise, Merrill.  Tal never had it in his nature to forgive, and Maker knows what I did, what I was party to would take a lot of forgiving.  Cole… thank you.  I think.”  Cullen forces a small smile as he looks at Cassandra, though his eyes are hooded and he looks beyond tired.  Tentatively, he asks, “Is that… is that offer still open?”  

 

Cassandra takes a deep breath, looks at Dorian, who nods.  “I’ll talk to Bull,” he says, half-smiling.  “You won’t hear about it.  Take him back.”

Cassandra smiles slightly, though she still looks worried.  “I’ll tell Josie.  She’ll come herself to bring you back to the hotel.”  She lowers her voice slightly, and tells him, “But Dorian, I’m serious about this - don’t go anywhere else.  There’s something about… there’s something here that doesn’t feel right, and with that purge outside…”

“I’ll stay with him,” Cole volunteers, blinking at Cassandra from under the brim of his hat.  “Nothing will happen to him.  I promise.”

 

“Cole, that’s very nice, but I’m sure I can…”

“You can.  But you won’t have to,” Cole tells him and blinks again, then smiles and touches his arm.  “You told him, you did.  Heart in your hands, and you said the words.  He did too.”  The smile widens, the grey eyes gleam under the ugh, utterly,  _ utterly _ ridiculous hat.  But Dorian cannot help but laugh, just a little through his nose.  “Yes.  I did.  And he did too.  It was good advice that you gave me.”

Cole beams, and he seems to stand a little straighter.  Cassandra clears her throat and Dorian sees the worried light still hasn’t left her eyes.  She looks at Merrill and asks, “What is your backstage security like?”

 

“Oh for the love of…  _ Cassandra! _ I’m fine!  I do not need babysitting!  Fasta vass, this is ridiculous.”  Dorian rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest.  “I’ll be fine.  Take Cullen back.  Do it now.”

Cassandra grimaces, then shrugs.  “Fine.  Keep backstage, don’t go anywhere else, and I’ll send Josie up as soon as I can.  She’ll be here in an hour.  Dorian,” she says warningly, holding out a finger as if she means to poke the information into him, “I mean it.   _ Don’t go anywhere else. _ ”

“Fine.   _ Fine! _ ” Dorian sighs and shakes his head.  Although he’s mostly exasperated with her, completely ignoring as she is the way that Cullen seems to be fading before their very eyes, he cannot help but be flattered by her insistence on his safety. He makes an effort and lowers his voice.  “Just get Cullen back.  I’ll be fine.”

 

Cassandra takes one last look at him and nods.  She takes Cullen’s arm and walks with him back the way they had come - Cullen walks with his head bowed, pensive, fragile.  The little group remaining watch them go, and then Cole cocks his head thoughtfully.  “He wants to go back. Everything ends, eventually, but he doesn’t believe it.  Not yet.”  He shakes himself, seeming to come out of a reverie, and smiles up at Dorian.  “Let’s go see Anders.”

 

Merrill squeezes Dorian’s shoulder, and says, “We’re just next door.  There’s loads of security here - it’s been funny, I feel like I need to ask permission to go to the loo!  Not that I mind.  Safety is important, and not something we’ve had much of in the past.”  There are two doors side by side, and as Cole guides Dorian to the one which Hawke had entered, Merrill floats to the other.  “I’m just next door.  Holler if you need me!  We can hear everything, the walls are so thin…” she giggles, covering her mouth and looking down, then back up at Dorian.  “Don’t tell Tal that,” she stage-whispers, “He’s funny when he doesn’t think anyone can hear him!”  Cole knocks, and Anders yells from within, “What?”

 

“It’s me.  Us,” Cole says, and turns the doorknob.  

“Wait! Fuck… uh, wait a sec!” Taliesin yells back, and Dorian hears scrambling and a muffled laugh from inside the room.  He bites his lip and looks at Cole, who looks back worriedly.  “I can come back..?” Cole asks through the slit in the door, and then Anders answers, more calm-sounding this time, “No, it’s fine Cole, please, come in…”

 

Cole pushes the door open fully, and Dorian cannot help but smirk.  Anders looks fairly normal, but Taliesin is very pink in the cheeks, and a little damp.  His lips are a little swollen looking too, and when he catches Dorians eye, he takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair, then shrugs, grinning lopsidedly.  “Pre-show,” he says, and Dorian nods.  

“Are we disturbing your rituals?” he asks with a smile.  

“A little, yes,” Hawke grumbles, and Anders laughs.  It’s not the same sort of laugh that Dorian has heard from him before - this is shakey, almost nervous.  “Hello, Dorian,” Anders says, and then looks to Cole, “Thank you for finding me.”

 

Cole beams, and from the corner of his eye, Dorian sees Hawke roll his eyes.  The younger man moves over to Anders, and Dorian takes a few paces forward to stand with Taliesin.  The raw emotion of a few minutes earlier has faded somewhat, but it needles him again as Hawke asks, “So.  Am I going to get a stern talking to from you about Cullen?”

 

Dorian shakes his head.  “No,” he replies, almost adding that he’s sure Hawke is far too old to change at this point, and then bites his tongue.  Hawke looks at him and narrows his eyes.  “What is it then?  I spoke to Fenris, by the way.  He’s not best pleased about you quote-unquote threatening him.”  Hawke quirks an eyebrow and smirks at the chagrinned expression that Dorian cannot help.  “He told me that you’d seen us, and that you two had…  _ talked _ .  You must be the only person in the known universe that didn’t know that Anders and Isabela, and Fenris and I… we’re…” he looks at Dorian, interlacing the fingers of both hands, seeming to struggle to find a word for what he means.  “It’s not a secret.”  Hawke unlaces his fingers and cocks his head.  “You really didn’t know?”

 

“No, of course I didn’t.  I never would have said what I did to Fenris if I had.  It was just… rather a shock, that’s all.”  That’s to put it mildly, really, but… he sighs and shrugs, “It’s none of my business, Fenris made that abundantly clear.  I just wanted… well… I…”

 

Hawke smiles tiredly and rubs a hand over his forehead.  “I know.  You didn’t want him to get hurt.”  He looks across the room, to where Anders is talking animatedly with Cole, who is staring up at him raptly.  “Neither did I.  That’s why we do what we do.  We all need different things, Dorian.”  He smiles ruefully and adds, “I’m sorry if we rather broke your notion of true love.  You know, Anders told me that he’d seen you, told me that you looked as if you and Bull had maybe had a spat.  Also that you’d been holding us, him and me, up as this shining perfect example of,” and he clasps his hands together, raising them to his chin and batting his eyelashes like a Disney princess as he croons, “ _ twuuu wuuuv. _ ”  He lowers his hands again and that rueful little smile is back as he tells Dorian, “We do love each other, you know.  But love and fucking… they’re not always the same thing.”

 

“Fasta vass, I know that.  I’m not that much of an ingenue.”  Dorian folds his arms over his chest and rolls his eyes.  He does feel rather foolish about the whole thing now, wishes that Hawke hadn’t bought it up.  But he has, so Dorian continues, “I suppose I just… perhaps its the difference between always being able to have what you want, and never.  The south, for all its many failings, does have the plus side of your relationship, your preference hardly being at all socially cumbersome.  In Tevinter, it’s not like that at all… casual was all I could ever have; if I’d have ever entertained the idea of… living together,  _ marrying _ someone of my own gender, I…”  he snorts, shakes his head, and Hawke nods.  

“I… think I get it.  We always want what we can’t have.  But… do you think you and Bull would… get married?  Shit,” and Hawke grins hugely, “Have you talked about it already?  Aw, Dorian!  That’d be…”

“No.  No, we haven’t talked about it.  Maker, I’m still struggling, I struggle every day with this.  I… there’s so much I want to tell him, and I just can’t, I never can seem to get the right words to make him understand what I mean…”  

“Dorian, Sweet Andraste’s Dimpled Buttcheeks, it’s not that fuckin’ hard.  You already told him you love him, now you just gotta do it again, like, a thousand million billion more times.”  Hawke shrugs, “Not so it loses all meaning.  That’s the tricky bit.  Even when he’s being a dick, even when you don’t agree, you still gotta mean it when you say it.  And it’s not as if he’s going anywhere.  He looks like he’d follow you to the ends of the earth, if it meant being with you.”

 

Dorian smiles and snorts.  “I know.  I know all of this in theory.  It’s just…”

“The practice.  Yeah.  I get it.  You’ll get there.”  Hawke flexes his fingers and cracks his knuckles.  “Look, I gotta check in with Fen.  You wanna come?”

Dorian hesitates.  Fenris had made it very clear to him that he wasn’t exactly the flavour of the month, but he  _ is _ fascinated by the man, would love to poke him for details as to his music.  Hawke seems to sense his reticence and grins, “C’mon.  I promise wolf-boy won’t bite you.  He only does for me, and only if I ask  _ real _ nice.”

 

Dorian shakes his head minutely and shrugs.  “Alright.”  As Hawke begins walking toward the door, Cole breaks off from his conversation with Anders and puts his hand out; the fingertips brush lightly against Dorian’s sleeve.  “Wait,” Cole says, “Where are you going?”

“Around the back to see Fen,”  Hawke tells him, his tone of voice curious, “Why?”

“I have to stay with Dorian. I promised.”

Dorian rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest.  As Anders and Hawke are now looking at him, obviously puzzled, he says reluctantly, “It was Cassandra, getting all nervous about the tone of the crowd.  She…”

“...sensed the purge.”  Anders finishes the sentence for him and sighs angrily.  “Someone’s idea of a bad fucking joke.”  He looks at Dorian for a moment, and the pale gold of his eyes looks harried.  “She’s not wrong, you know.  The mix here is really weird; Bottled Blood and Templar Babies both played today - RDVD head the bill tomorrow.  There are a lot of little wanna-be templar shits here, a lot of broken up fist fights and hexings and stuff.  It’s not gonna get better.  Cass was smart to get someone to look out for you.  Incidentally,”  and here Anders frowns, looks about, “Where is she?  Talking to Izzy and Merrill?”

 

“No, she and Cullen… they left.  Cullen, well, he had a bit of an altercation with Lee Samson earlier, at the LWS gig.”

“Ooh, fuck,” Hawke breathes, and his mouth hangs open, “Oh shit.  That’s why I was getting the evils.”

Anders only grunts, looking at Dorian as if he wants him to continue.  So Dorian gives them the abridged version of the brief argument.  “Damn,” Hawke whispers when he’s finished, “I never even suspected there might be something like that between those two.  Baby,” he says forlornly, addressing Anders, “my gaydar’s broken!”

Anders ignores him.  “That shit’s going to be all over Philliam by now too.”  He laughs a little and raises an eyebrow, “I wouldn’t want to be Josephine today.”

 

Dorian only raises an eyebrow.  Anders and Hawke might find it amusing, but he does not.  The whole situation is so strange, he feels like he’s walking through a maze blindfolded, being jolted from obstacle to obstacle.  He appreciates Hawkes chagrin at the way he spoke to Cullen of course, but thinks that the two of them are clouding the issue with politics, instead of seeing the individual struggle behind it.  “In any case,” he says, careful not to let the annoyance he feels show, “That is indeed why Cassandra thought it would be better if I didn’t stay.  I believe she’s planning to send Josephine herself to babysit me soon, so Cole will be relieved.”

 

“No, I won’t be.  I like you, Dorian,”  Cole tells him, then asks, rather worriedly, “Why would anyone sit on a baby?”

“Oh Cole, it’s a figure of speech,” Dorian laughs, and smiles.  It breaks some of the tension at least.  Cole seems so young, so innocent, it’s hard to believe he could take care of himself, let alone anyone else.  

There is silence for a moment, then Hawke looks at the wall mounted clock.  “We got about half an hour until they call us.  You wanna come and see Fen, get this shit sorted out?” He looks at Cole and raises his right hand, puts his left over his heart, “And look, spirit-boy, I solemnly swear I will honour the oath that you took to keep young Master Pavus safe.”

 

“Ngh,” Anders rolls his eyes, “Just go already.”

“Okay!” Hawke sings and grins, “C’mon, Dori-baby, let’s go!”  He pokes Dorian in the shoulder, then opens the door and dances out of it, turning and beckoning to Dorian, grinning, using both his arms, holding them out toward Dorian, waggling the fingers.  “C’mon, c’mon,” he repeats, then sings, “Some kind of verb… some kind of moving thing… something unseen, some hand is motioning… to rise, to rise, to rise…” He laughs and turns again, bopping to an unheard rhythm, down the narrow corridor, threading in between crew and security, trailing his fingers over the amplifiers, now taking a roadie by the waist, an elf with an armload of cables who grins up at him as Hawke serenades him with, “Move aside, and let the man go through… let the man go through…”  More laughter as he releases the elf and keeps bopping, Dorian simply follows, shaking his head in puzzlement at the easy way Hawke has.  Perhaps it is just excitement at the impending performance, who knows, but it is infectious.  Dorian cannot help but smile; though he is nervous, of course, at seeing Fenris again.

 

They circle around the back of the stage, onto the opposite wing.  Hawke knocks on the door of a makeshift room and yells, “Fenny!  Want a couple of visitors?”

“Not really,” comes the muffled answer, and Hawke laughs.  

“Come on, Fenny-Wenny,” he purrs, “My cupcake, my squirrel-butt, my shining beacon of positivity and good grace, my…”

The door is thrown open suddenly, and Fenris reaches through the doorway to grab a fistful of Hawke’s t-shirt.  Hawke squawks in surprise, and then it is muffled - Fenris has pulled him forward and is kissing him.  Hawke chuckles, and Fenris’ grip tightens.  Dorian leans against the doorjamb, waiting to be noticed.  Hawke laughs again, and there is an audible gasp as Fenris suddenly lets him go.  “Cor,” Hawke tells him, “If I’d known I was gonna get kissed like that, I’d make fun of you more often.”

 

“Don’t push your luck, Taliesin.  It’s only because I heard that terrible noise you have the nerve to call singing that I decided to be a little nice for once.  Not that you deserve it.”  Fenris looks at Dorian and his smile dies at once. “What’s he doing here?”

“Now, Fen, c’mon…”

“What’s he _ doing _ here?”

“Can’t you…”

“ _ What is he doing here _ ?”

“I came to apologise,” Dorian interrupts.  When Fenris says nothing, he continues, “I wanted to apologise for my tone yesterday.  While there are no excuses, I must confess that I didn’t know of your… arrangement.  I had no right to make you feel threatened, and I know that I did that… on reflection, it was a rather shabby way to behave.”  He takes a deep breath and then puts out his hand, “Will you forgive me?”

 

His hand hangs in the air as Fenris merely looks at him.  Dorian can feel Hawke’s eyes moving between the two of them, his stare almost palpable.  He does not lower either his hand or his eyes; he only waits, still as stone.  Fenris continues to look at him, his gaze unreadable.  Dorian still waits; someone drops something heavy, and there is a string of swearwords, but still he does not falter.  Then, after what feels like an age, just as he is about to give up, Fenris reaches out a hand and shakes his quickly.  His hand is strong, dry, and gone just as quickly as it arrived.

 

“Hooray!” Hawke says, and to Dorian he sounds obviously relieved.  “Now we can have that threesome I had planned… joking, Fenris!” he says quickly, raising both hands, open, to the level of his shoulders.  “Joking!  I just wanted to check in, see how you were shaping up…”  Fenris turns, walking back into the room as Hawke continues talking, telling Dorian as he enters, following Fenris, “Fen’s gonna be playing some rhythm for us, we got a couple of tracks on the new album that need it… better than a session guy any day.”

 

“I  _ would  _ say,” Dorian tells him, “Much better, I’d assume…”

“Because assumption has got you so far already,” Fenris mutters darkly, and Dorian frowns.  

“Look,” he says, studiously ignoring the voice in his head which is telling him to stop, stop now, “I apologised…”

“You did.  I don’t know why you seem to have thought that we would become friends because of that, however.  Perhaps you’ll enlighten me.”

“Because I think we have more in common than not,” Dorian tells him, still frowning, “Because I honestly think that you would want to change our shared homeland for the better…”

Fenris snorts.  “Tevinter is not, and will never be, my  _ home _ .  The only change I can think of which befits such a nest of vipers is just to burn it all down.  Actually… Utter destruction is too good for it.”

 

Dorian is stunned into silence for a moment.  Maker, the weight of it, all the tiny noises seem lost in this deep, awful wash of the sudden dearth of conversation.  It is like drowning, too much, the silence fills his ears and nose and throat, and so he takes a breath and says, “Really?  I… don’t think I understand the sentiment…”

“Of course you don’t.  You could never understand it.  From your point of view - the point of view of a member of the Altus class, a member of the ruling elite, son and only heir to a Magister - Tevinter has its  _ faults _ , its  _ issues _ ,” Fenris lays brutal stress on each word, seeming to hiss them through clenched teeth, “But it is redeemable.  You would go back to power, privilege and honour.  You with your flat ears, your magical ability and your willful ignorance about whatever, whoever goes under the wheels of the advancement of your ambition.  I recognised that rep from Venatori - I have an idea of what she offered you.  And I bet you considered taking her up on it too, and damn the consequences.  Am I right?”

 

“Yes,” Dorian says simply.  He is angry, of course he is angry, but also… how could he have thought that he and Fenris would have anything to talk about, any common ground on which to stand?  His brevity, his honesty perhaps, seems to tip Fenris off-kilter somewhat however, as he cocks his head and narrows his eyes slightly.  Dorian chances a glance at Hawke, who is standing between them, looking from one to the other with his mouth slightly open.  

 

And into the silence, Dorian says, “You are right.  I did consider it.  When you left Imperium, left Tevinter, what did you find?  You went from a situation which was untenable, where you were being used in the grossest possible form, to a group which… I mean, you  _ own _ Freedom Music, do you not?  You own all the rights to the music you create?  You’re accepted as part of that, part of Apostasy, you are clearly loved by your friends and respected by your collaborators and fellow musicians.  I, however, am not.  I do not own the music I create; things are better with Inquisition, but they still own the copyright.  I play music other people wrote when I play with Thrown; how could I not consider a gig in which I would have some degree of creative autonomy?  Some stability to my life, as well as a return to the country that I still call home, for all its faults.  I did not work regularly for a full year after I left Imperium - I sessioned, I worked my ass off in gig after low-paying gig, sensing that I would never get that break again, wondering if I had blown all my chances through trying to make a better life for myself.”  Dorian holds up a hand, “I’m not competing; this is not a case of  _ my troubles are harder to bear than yours _ .  But do not assume that I do not know what it is like to be the pariah.  I have my own experience in that regard.”

 

Dorian sighs and looks at Hawke, then back to Fenris and smiles in chagrin.  “I am sorry.  I do have rather a dreadful habit of speaking my mind rather too plainly.  There is never enough time to really talk, is there?  But I am sorry, for all the assumptions I’ve made.  I… I had better go and find Cole.  I’m sure he’ll be looking for me.”

 

Dorian strides forward, not looking back when he hears Hawke say his name weakly from behind him.  He walks quickly through the maze of people; the vibe has changed out here, gone from anticipation to something more akin to an army arraying for battle.  Crew are absolutely everywhere - Dorian is stopped by security staff three times on his journey from one side of the stage to the other.  He is approaching the Fader dressing rooms when he hears Isabela yelling Hawke’s name.  “Where is that idiot?” 

 

“Here, the idiot is here,” Hawke says from behind Dorian.  He grins at Dorian worriedly, then asks Isabela, “What?”

“Big Girl’s been on the line for you,” Isabela tells him, and shakes her head, “They had to evacuate the office.”

“The  _ fuck _ ?”  Hawke’s eyes blaze angrily, and he is gone, into the dressing room that he and Anders share.  

“Five minutes guys!” a harassed looking dwarf with a clipboard yells, and Fenris says, “What happened?”

Isabela sighs and folds her arms over her chest.  “Aveline wouldn’t tell me.  Just yelled at me to get Hawke.  It sounds fucking bad though.  Sounds like there’s been another threat made.”

Dorian looks at Merrill, who has approached Isabela from behind, and is looking around with large, worried eyes.  “Oooh,” she murmurs, “I hope Aveline’s okay.  Did she bring Donny into the office?  Creators, I hope they’re okay…”

“They will be, kitten.  Big Girl’s not dumb, okay?”  Isabela looks worried though, and she wraps her arm around Merrill.  She mutters, half to Merrill and half to herself, “She’s not gonna bring the baby in.”

 

Dorian feels a light touch on his elbow, and turns to see Cole standing there, compulsively pulling at the flaps on his hat.  “Rats in the walls,” Cole mutters, and shakes his head, looking ashen.  “Little words making waves.  Things aren’t right here.  Not tonight, not tonight.”

Something thumps hard against the door of the dressing room Hawke has entered, and Cole, Merrill and Dorian all jump.  Fenris and Isabela look at each other.  “Two minutes!” the dwarf calls, “Where the fuck is Hawke?  His tech’s looking…”

“Alright!” Isabela yells angrily, “Just back off!  We know!”  She shakes her head and when Merrill hugs her tighter she mutters, “I need a drink.”

 

Hawke and Anders emerge from the dressing room, both looking appalled and tired.  Anders in particular looks almost sick.  Hawke’s brows are drawn together, and his dark eyes flash with anger.  “We gotta go on stage,” Hawke tells them, “Then me and Anders are going home.  Aveline’s alright, everyone’s fine; there… there was another threat made, and they got told by the guard to exercise caution.  So she shut the place up.”  Dorian sees he is almost vibrating with rage, and suddenly Hawke turns and punches the wall opposite so hard it shivers.  “Fucking  _ fucks! _ ” he yells, and then shakes his hand, “Fucking fucks.  That fucking hurt.”  He looks at his hand, sees the knuckles are bleeding and laughs shakily.  “Let’s get this over with.”

 

It is as far a cry from the Fader concert in Val Royeaux as Dorian could have ever seen.  From the very moment that Fader step out on stage, the crowd is hostile, baying with rage.  Whether it is the influence of pro-Templar factions within the crowd, or simply being made to wait so long in the pouring rain, they positively howl.  Anders stands right on the edge of the stage, lifting the long skirt he wears slightly to expose the boots underneath, his pale chest running with water as he sings the first lines of the first track,  _ I am skin and bones, I am pointy nose… but it motherfuckin’ makes me try!  It makes me try, and that ain’t no wrong… I’ll tell you what, there ain’t no right. _

 

Dorian sees two fist fights break out, near the front of the stage from where he stands in the wings, security quickly leaping over barricades to settle the fracas.  There is an air of terrible determination to Fader; none of them appear to be enjoying this, their last show of the tour, a show where they could be revelling in their mastery, feeling the perfect ebb and flow of energy from the crowd to themselves and back again.  But no - there is too much history, too much pain in the moment, too much tension in the disparate elements.  Merrill looks miserable, all the bounce gone; she pounds methodically through each song.  Hawke gazes out into the crowd almost belligerently, almost as if he is begging for someone to throw something, for some excuse to make a fight of it.  Isabela stands on the opposite side of the stage, closest to the wings, almost as if she is ready to run at any moment.  Fenris stands closest to Anders; Dorian notes, as Fader begin the third song of their set, that he is slowly nudging Anders across the stage, over to where Hawke stands.  

 

And then, it happens.  A bright, white-blue light rolls out of the crowd, creating a circular wave, not unlike a rock dropped into a still pool of water.  Feedback arcs through the amplifiers; one of them blows, sending a shock of orange sparks into the crowd.  Anders throws his microphone down; both Hawke and Fenris fling their guitars around their bodies, going toward him quickly.  Hawke is holding his head with one hand, his face a mask of pain and terror - he has thrown his guitar off with such force the strap has broken, and the guitar flies across the stage, bouncing twice on the hard surface.  Isabela pulls the strap of her bass quickly over her head as she goes to Merrill, who is standing up behind her kit, screaming Anders’ name.  

 

The shriek of feedback is simply awful.  Dorian covers his ears with both hands, grimacing.  He feels suddenly nauseous, and knows what that light must have been - a second purge.   _ This is horrible _ , he thinks, and feels a tug on his arm.  He turns quickly, sees Cole staring at him with wide eyes, watches as his mouth moves.  “What?!” Dorian yells.

 

It takes him a while to figure out what Cole is shouting.  It’s the same words, over and over again, of course.  “I have to help you!  I have to help you!”  His eyes are round, bright with panic, and he pushes Dorian in the chest so hard he almost stumbles.  Crew are streaming onto the stage; security staff are everywhere.  Cole runs forward, pulling on Dorian’s arm, and they fight the current, moving away from the stage, back toward the exit.  But Maker, it is hard.  Dorian is shoved in the shoulder, Cole dragging on his arm with a strength Dorian would never have credited him with.  

 

Finally, they are out of the main mass of people; the sounds from the stage, from the crowd are horrific still, and Cole looks back at Dorian.  “Are you alright?” he asks breathlessly, and Dorian nods.

“Yes.  Yes I am, thanks to you.”

“No… we have to get you out of here.  This way.  He’s coming.”

 

“Cole… who…” But Cole is off again, dragging once more on Dorian’s arm.  The noise of the crowds shift and pitch over the air and it is now impossible to tell what is happening.  Many of the people they pass are laughing, though some of them are beginning to look with some degree of concern in the direction of stage one.  And then, he’s there.

“Dorian!” Bull yells, running, limping really, toward him.  “Dorian, vashedan, what the fuck happened?  Are you alright?   _ Are you alright? _ ”

“Bull, I’m, I’m fi…” Dorian begins, and then he is engulfed in Bull’s arms.  And it is only when he feels himself surrounded so completely, so much so that all noise is blocked out, there is nothing in the world but the warmth of Bull’s skin and the smell of him, the strength of his arms, only then does he really feel the events of the afternoon; of the entire tour, perhaps.  His mind fixates on image after image - the snarl of self-disgust on Cullen’s face, Fenris’ scowl, Hawke’s mockery, Anders with his hands in his hair, microphone screaming at his feet.  He tries to laugh shakily, laugh it all off, but he sobs instead.  “Shh, kadan, I’m here,” Bull tells him and Dorian sobs again.

 

“I love you, amatus, I love you,” he says, allowing his tears to stream onto Bull’s skin, where it is exposed between the straps of his vest. “Oh amatus, what a day.  What a strange, horrible day.  I love you.  I’m so glad you came.”  Dorian sighs, whispers again, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This is a long chapter. Hopefully it will hold you over for a little while longer, as I'm going to take next week off posting, dear readers. I'm sorry to do this to you at such a juncture (fingers crossed the lovely fluff at the end there will help a little), but I'm a bit tapped out on this story. So, next week is a break, but then there are only two chapters to go until the end anyway.
> 
> Oh! And, as usual, the music bit - Hawke is singing a song by Soul Coughing (*cringe*), [Super Bon Bon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRqP52c0OLU) it's called, and holy cats, if you want a good laugh I'd suggest watching that video... it's a bit close to home for me, the nineties were kind of my hey-day, and I remember when I first heard this song on student radio. Ahh... revolting reminiscences. And finally, the Fader song is once again, one by Janes' Addiction - [Ain't No Right](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vx6691i0KDE), once again from the album Ritual de lo Habitual.
> 
> See you in a couple of weeks!


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian hears from a new friend and finds an old one. Cullen makes a decision.

* * *

“Don’t it make you feel bad / when you’re tryin’ to find your way home / You don’t know which way to go?”

_ When the Levee Breaks _ , Led Zeppelin ( _ IV _ , 1971)

* * *

 

 

They rise late. Dorian comes awake bit by bit, becoming more aware of his body, the weight of it, the warmth.  Bull squeezes him gently, and Dorian kisses him in the crook of his elbow.  Last night, they had taken a clearly shaken Cole back to his hotel.  Dorian had offered again and again, telling him that he can stay with them, whatever he needs, but Cole is adamant.  He had waved to them, standing under the broken awning of his hotel, the fluff on his hat getting soaked in the downpour, and the sight of it had made Dorian want to cry again.  Bull had somehow sensed this, and had reached over as he’d guided the car away from the curb, and stroked Dorian’s thigh.  “He’ll be alright,” he’d said, and Dorian had nodded and sniffed.

 

But now, the third day of Skyhold is well and truly begun.  Dorian reaches out a hand, fumbles his phone from the bedside table and looks at the time.  Well past two in the afternoon; six missed calls, he sees, three of them from Josephine, one from Cassandra and two from an unknown number.  He sighs, and the phone trembles in his hand - it is the unknown number again.  Dorian frowns, wondering, then glances at Bull and throws caution to the wind.  “Hello?”  he asks.

 

“Dorian?  It’s Anders.”  The line is crackly, Dorian can barely make out the words, though it sounds like Anders is shouting.  “Dorian?  Can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I can hear you,”  Dorian says, and quickly swings his legs out of bed, rising.  Bull makes a half-hearted grab for him, without opening his eye, and Dorian smiles.  He covers the end of the phone and says quietly, “I’ll be right back, amatus.”  Then he walks swiftly into the bathroom.

 

“Are you alright?  What’s happening?” Dorian asks, and then again, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, we’re fine.  We’re back - back in Kirkwall.  We left late last night… or early this morning, really.  Had to get patched up first.”  The line seems to have improved somewhat, and Anders seems to be speaking in a more normal tone of voice.  “I really just wanted to check that you were okay.”

“Yes.  Yes I am.  Cole helped me find Bull, I’m still not really sure how.  I suppose it doesn’t matter.  Oh!  Cole!  Have you spoken to him?”

 

“Yeah,” Anders says slowly, and Dorian frowns at the tiredness, the resignation in his voice.  “Thank the Maker he played yesterday too - he flies back to Llomerryn this afternoon… Actually, he’ll be flying out about now.  He’s okay, Dorian.  He was more worried about you, actually.”

“Really?  But I was alright… I had Bull…”

“Yeah,” Anders says again, and then sighs.  There is silence, and then Anders says, “Look.  I’ve got two messages, okay?  I don’t know if this will make any sense to you, but Cole said that if I talked to you before the end of day three, then I should tell you this.  He said you wouldn’t listen, but that it was alright.  So… you ready?”

“Aside from feeling rather apprehensive, I suppose so.  What’s the message?”

“Cole said:  _ You think he’ll be angry at you for wanting more, but this is the more he wants.  He wants more for you, and knows you’re capable of it.  More of this doesn’t mean nothing of that.  It only means change. _ ”  

 

Dorian is quiet, wondering.   _ This is the more he wants _ , he thinks, and puzzles over the meaning.  Still, Cole always was cryptic, and his well meant advice has never made much sense to Dorian until after the fact when it’s been offered in the past.  Besides, he thinks, smiling wryly, Cole told Anders that he wouldn’t listen.  He snorts a laugh and asks, “Alright, what’s the second message?”

 

“It’s from Hawke.”  The line goes very quiet, and Dorian waits for a moment, before asking, “Anders?  Are you still there?”

“Yes.  I’m here.  Sorry.”  Anders sighs, and Dorian hears a door shut down the line.  “Hawke… look, he told me that he’d told you about… about the arrangement.  That we have, he and I.  And that… he’s sorry if he… if  _ we _ … had let you down.  If we’d made things harder for you, or…”

 

“No, no, Anders.”  Privately, Dorian wonders if this is a message from Hawke, or if this is Anders’ way of apologising.  In any case, it does not matter.  He smiles slightly, and tells Anders honestly, “Look, I can’t pretend I wasn’t… a little shocked.  Actually, more than a little.  But in the end of it, it’s not… in the end, it’s none of my affair.  Really, truly, as long as you both… you all… are happy within the arrangement, then that’s what’s important to me.  You know.”  Dorian pauses, then says, “As a friend.”

 

He hears a small sound which seems as if it is a relieved laugh.  “Dorian.  We haven’t known each other for very long, but… I don’t know, it seems like I’ve known you longer than I have.  I feel like we have… so many points of similarity.  Keep in touch, okay?  This number will always reach me.  I wish we could have seen you play again - you really are good at what you do.  Will you?  Keep in touch, I mean?”

“You just try to stop me.  I’m very glad to hear from you, Anders.  Say hello to Tal for me, would you?”

“I will. Good luck for tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Anders.”  There hangs a moment of silence, and Dorian smiles gently into it, before he tells Anders, “Alright.  Goodbye.”

“‘Bye, Dorian.”  

 

Dorian takes the phone away from his ear and thumbs the call end icon.  He leans against the door for a moment, just staring at the screen.  He hears a floorboard creak, and then a tentative knock at the bathroom door.  “Kadan?” Bull asks, his voice muffled, “You okay?”

“Yes, thank you.  Hang on,”  Dorian turns, opening the door and smiling up into Bull’s concerned face.  “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Bull shakes his head and shrugs.  “Just heard you talkin’, that’s all.  Everything alright?”

“Just Anders.  He was letting me know that everything was okay with them, and with Cole.  Cole’s flying out to Llomerryn this afternoon.”  Dorian swallows, rubs his chest and looks at Bull again, and Bull frowns slightly and says, “That’s good.  But there’s something else, isn’t there?”

 

Dorian lowers his eyes and chuckles.  “I never can keep anything from you…”  He looks up at Bull and smiles, but Bull still looks concerned, so Dorian tells him, “I just felt… strange for a moment.  Like… this is a turning point.  That all the people I’ve known in these last… what?  Eight months, since I’ve been with Thrown?”  Bull nods and stays silent, allowing Dorian to continue.  “Like all the people I’ve known…”  But he trails off, unable to complete the sentence.  He feels, deeply, that this is all just a way station, a terminus where they will all go their separate ways to… where?  And what does that mean for him and Bull?

 

He sighs and shakes his head.  “Don’t worry,” he tells Bull, smiling brightly, “Just a momentary fugue.  I’m sure it’s just the residue of last night's weirdness.”

Bull nods, though he seems unconvinced.  “Speakin’ of which,” he growls, “Had a text from Josie.  She needs to see us, a-sap.  You wanna shower together?”  Bull grins, though it seems slightly forced, “Save some time?”

“When did that ever save us time, you brute?” Dorian laughs, and rolls his eyes.  “First time for everything, I suppose.”

 

-|||-

 

It could hardly be called ‘as soon as possible’, but they make it to the Inquisition offices before three thirty at least.  Jim nods and shepherds them back to a small lounge-cum-office area, where Josephine sits with Cassandra and Cullen.  Everyone looks rather grim, but Cullen perks up at the sight of them.  “Maker’s Breath!” he says, leaping to his feet and rushing over to Dorian.  He doesn’t seem to know quite what to do with himself when he’s standing in front of him, so Dorian grins and pulls him into a hug.  Cullen stands awkward for a moment, and then returns it, squeezing Dorian tightly by the shoulders.  “I’m so sorry,” he says, “I’m so sorry I made Cass come back…”

“Oh fasta vass, Cullen!  Like any of that was your doing.  No, no, it all worked out for the best…”

 

Josephine clears her throat.  “Actually, that isn’t entirely true.  Take a seat please, guys.”  Dorian raises his eyebrows at Cullen, then turns to look at Bull, who shrugs.  They sit around Josephine, who sighs, then tells them, without preamble, “They’re looking to close down Skyhold.”

 

Silence greets her words.  Cassandra looks resigned, then cross, her arms wrapped around her knees, black boots on the white leather of the seat.  “That is total bullshit,” she says coldly, “If they’d bother to screen before they opened the gates…”  She sighs angrily, and shrugs.  “When can we expect a decision?”

“In a few minutes, hopefully.  But I need to ask you - given this…” Josephine clenches her jaw and looks gravely at Cullen, who averts his eyes, “ _ blow up _ in Philliam, and the anti-mage sentiment coming out… what happened with Rebel Warden, Bees!, and Fader yesterday… do you really think…”

“Yes,” Dorian tells her solidly, not stopping to think.  “If you’re going to ask if it's worth it, Josephine, then yes.  It is.”

Josephine snorts, then smiles.  “How did I know you’d say that?”  She taps a note on the tablet on her lap and looks around the room at the rest of the band.  “Would anyone else like to express an opinion?”

There is a moment of nothing, then Cullen says quietly, “Only that I think Dorian’s right.  It is worth it.  It will be, to play.  If we don’t play, if we run scared, then of course, it just lets them win.”  He shakes his head, and tells her fiercely, “I’m not gonna do that.”

 

“Damn right,” Bull says, then asks, “Cass?  You in?”

“Was I ever in doubt?  I agree with Cullen’s sentiment - we have to rise above this idiocy.  We are…”  She pauses a moment, obviously trying to gather her thoughts, and then says, slowly, “We are a neutral force.  No… we are  _ better _ than neutral.  We are a living embodiment of the fact that this bickering between mage and templar is stupid.  So if Skyhold is open on day four, then I say we play.  I say we play  _ hard _ .”

 

“Fuck yeah, Cassie!  Way to rouse the rabble!” Bull laughs and Cassandra grins at him.  Josephine’s phone begins to bleep at her insistently, and she quickly takes it in hand.  She answers, and then holds out a finger to them.  “Yes, yes, I understand,” she tells whoever it is on the other end of the line.  “Of course, we understand that.”  Another pause as Josephine listens, and Dorian watches her face for any sign that the news she’s receiving is positive or negative.  Perhaps it is long years of dealing with promoters, but her face is a careful blank. “Alright, thank you.  Thank you for calling.”  Josephine ends the call and smiles, “A minor coup,” she tells them, “All going according to plan, but more security.”  She smirks, “And a performance bonus.  Which I will make sure Inquisition passes on to you.”

 

Bull snorts and grins.  “Well done you,” he tells her, “Now what have we got in store for today?”

Josephine sighs in satisfaction, and then looks at Cullen, astonished as he says quietly, “I’m going to see RDVD.”

Both Cassandra and Josephine erupt.  Dorian himself is unable to help the worried expression on his face - he can feel his brows pulling together, and he looks at Bull, expecting to see his expression mirrored there.  But it isn’t; Bull looks resigned, nothing more.  He nods at Cullen and asks, over the noise that Josephine and Cassandra are still making, “You want company?”

 

This shuts them both up.  Josephine stares at Bull, incredulous, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.  Cassandra on the other hand, looks mostly just grateful.  She takes a deep breath and looks at Cullen to say, “It wouldn’t be a bad idea.  Bull’s not connected with that scene, after all.”

 

Cullen nods and shrugs.  “If you want,” he tells Bull, “I just… I need to talk to Lee.  After yesterday…” he laughs, quietly, seeming as if he is forcing the noise out of himself, “He made a few good points.”

_ You abandoned us _ , Dorian remembers Lee saying, that broken voice, angry and desolate in his mind.  “If Bull’s going… do you mind if I tag along?”

Once again, Cullen shrugs.  “If you want.  It’s not going to be pretty though, and especially not after yesterday.  I know you can take care of yourself, but…” 

“Try not to be too magey?”  Dorian laughs, and arches an eyebrow as he says, “I’ll do my very best to be as mundane as possible.”

“Didn’t think  _ mundane  _ was in your repertoire,” Bull murmurs, and then looks at Cullen, “I’m goin’ up to see Krem and that in about an hour - you wanna come with?”

 

When Cullen nods, Josephine shakes her head.  “I really,  _ really _ have to question this.  I’m already pulling every legal gag on Philliam to stop that little… reunion… yesterday from hitting their website.  It’s all over the net anyway, but to see it picked up by them would give it huge validity.”  She looks at Cullen and asks, “Did you know Meredith is talking to the media about your relationship?  Yours and Lee’s?  There’s only so far I can take this before it grows it's own wings.”

The room is quiet then, and Cullen sighs, and looks at Josephine sadly.  “You know… I find myself not really giving two shits any more.”  He leans forward then, puts his face into his hands and tells them, his voice muffled, “It was the realest thing I ever had.  I can’t… I…”

 

He tails off into silence once more, and Cassandra heaves a sigh, before getting up and walking across the room to Cullen.  “If you need to do it, you know I’ll support you. We’ll all support you.  I… I’m going to see Lycanthrope… uh, see Fenris play,” she is looking at Bull as she says this, and Dorian notes with no small amount of glee the blush creeping up her neck as she says the words.  “So uh… do you mind if I get a ride too?  

 

Bull shakes his head, “‘Course not, Cass.”  He grins, and rises, then looks at Josephine.  “Anything else you got for us, Boss?”

“Nothing other than to mention the fact that you are all assholes.”  Josephine sighs harshly and then smiles at them, “You will put me in an early grave.  I still think this is a bad idea, but when have I ever been able to dissuade you from a course of action, once your minds are made up?”

“Never, of course!” Dorian says brightly, then rises as well.  “You are a dear though, Josephine - thank you, a million times thank you, for looking out for us.”

 

Josephine flaps her hand dismissively, but looks pleased.  “Oh Dorian.  You know I wouldn’t change a thing.”

 

-|||-

 

The schedule is tight.  The Chargers are playing first, opposite Bastard King and Torment Me with Hexes on the other two stages.  The way it works seems streamlined - there are six stages, three minor and three capable of taking the larger acts, with stage one being the largest and most kitted out.  However, in reality, there is always lag, something has usually gone wrong and the schedule is always on the verge of being destroyed entirely, as is what happened yesterday.  Rebel Warden’s amplifier trouble had thrown the whole thing off - they had insisted on playing their full set.  Dorian strokes his chin, wondering how much the Venatori representative had had to do with that insistence, and then shrugs, deciding he doesn’t much care either way.  The offer she’d made him was nice, flattering, but… He could never, would never, take her up on it.  Besides, Rebel Warden are a failing act, rife with infighting and tensions; it’s only a matter of time before they implode.  Hopefully publically, Dorian thinks and smirks.  Bull looks at him, banging his horn on the door frame of the car as he does and asks, “Whatcha grinning at, kadan?”

 

“Oh, nothing,” Dorian says blithely.  It is almost on his tongue to continue,  _ just thinking about Rebel Warden _ , but he finds he does not want to get into the specifics of why it would be he’d be thinking about them.  It seems vainglorious, for one thing, puffed up with his own self importance to mention that he’d been sought out by a rival company, but it also gives rise to too many questions.  So he stays his tongue and asks, “Are you looking forward to the Chargers?”

 

“Yeah, hell yeah,” Bull says, and grins back.   His horn  _ thonks _ on the doorframe again and he swears under his breath.  Dorian smirks, stifling a laugh, and Bull rolls his eyes.  “Dunno what their setlist is gonna be.  Hope it’s the new stuff.”

“Isn’t it… strange to see a band that’s continued without you?”

“Nah,” Bull says, “It’s amazing.  I love seeing where those guys have taken the stuff we were doing and the fact that they’re still going is a real testament to how they’re getting on.  There’s a lot of disparate elements in the Chargers, but they make it work, man.  It’s great.  I feel like a proud dad or something.”

Dorian laughs at this, and Cullen and Cassandra join him from the backseat.  “Everyone compares your relationship with the Chargers as family,” Cassandra says, her smile evident in her voice, “I think it’s nice.”

 

Bull laughs.  “Yeah.  We’re like one of those big weird families who do lots of internal conflict, but if you cross one of us, we all come after you.  It’s pretty cool.”

Dorian narrows his eyes slightly, thinking about Bull’s use of the word  _ we _ .  Bull’s never made any secret of the fact that he feels as if he’s never left the Chargers, but… does that mean he’s intending to go back?  What are they doing now for a drummer anyway?  Dorian opens his mouth to ask, and then closes it again.  The radio is on, burbling in the background, becoming more static than tune as they weave their way around the tortuous curves of the mountain road.  

  
  


The crowds are the same, thick and swirling in concentricities around the stages, the merch stands, the fairground.  There is a markedly increased security presence now, and added to that are a rather large contingent of Fereldan Guard.  Given the problems a few years ago in Redcliffe, at the beginning of the Mage Templar War, Dorian supposes that their presence is not incredibly surprising, but does wonder if they might encourage problems rather than ameliorate them.  Still, he supposes he should be grateful.  He loops an arm casually through Bull’s, and peers around, the mud sucking at his boots.  The rain of yesterday has spent itself in the night, and the world feels made-new in the aftermath of the storm.  He purses his lips, looking around at the anonymous faces in the crowd, and then frowns as his gaze falls upon a laughing woman with blonde hair.  She seems… so familiar, but perhaps it is just that she has one of those faces.  Dorian sighs, begins to look away and then the sound of the woman’s laughter sails over the general hubbub of the crowd and he realises who it is with such blinding insight he gasps.  “Mae!” he yells, waving his hand in the hair, pulling the other arm from the crook of Bull’s elbow as he does, not caring that he looks a fool, “Maevaris Talani!”

 

The woman looks in their direction, peers confusedly through the crowd for a few moments, then her entire face lights up and she shrieks, “Dori!  Dorian Pavus!  Sweet Maker!”  She runs toward him, arms outstretched, and in an instant there she is, in his arms.  He picks her up, whirls her around and she laughs merrily, the smell of her hair lingering in his nose.  “Dori,” she says when he’s released her, “Maker, it’s good to see you again.”

“And you,” he tells her, then remembers his manners.  “Mae, might I introduce Thrown from the Breach?”

 

“As if any introduction were necessary,” she smiles, and rolls her bright blue eyes at him.  “Cassandra, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.  I’ve long admired your work.”  Cassandra smiles slightly and inclines her head as she shakes Maevaris’ hand.  “Cullen, the same goes for you, but goodness I’d love to know more about your rig.  Do you still have the Ibanez five string you used for  _ Gallows Gate _ ?”

Cullen smiles, unable to hide the fact that he’s impressed.  “Yes, I do.  Wow, that was a while ago now.  Well, it’s in storage, but…” His grin widens and he frowns slightly, puzzled, “Do you play?”

 

“Mae plays bass and does vocal in one of Tevinter’s more successful bands.  Dianae Rex.”

“Oh, Dorian, you flatter me.  What he means by  _ one of Tevinter’s more successful bands _ is that we are known by about five people in southern Thedas, too.”  Maevaris laughs, and turns her gaze to Bull, “And Bull!  The man, the legend.  I hear you’ve been a busy lad.”

 

Bull grins and nods.  “Busy enough.  You guys playin’?”

Maevaris shakes her head, and Dorian looks at her, astonished.  “You said in your last email that things were fine.  What’s happened?”

“Dorian!  My word, such an instinct for the dramatic,”  Maevaris smiles, and shakes her head again.  She puts her arm around his waist and sighs happily.  “You’re so warm, of course I’ll forgive you, dear heart.  No.  Dianae is fine, we’re… we’re on hiatus for a month or two, while we get negotiations with Imperium sorted.  We’re jumping ship.  I started a new label.”

 

Dorian’s eyes widen.  “Really?  What’s it called?”

“We don’t have a name yet.  We only have a mission statement, really, and you probably know it already.  Imperium has been riddled for years with mismanagement, brutally unfair contractual engagements, truly awful A and R.  It stifles the whole of the industry, but the way they suck in indie labels makes it nigh impossible to do anything about it - there’s simply no competition for them back home.  So, myself and a few others got sick of seeing younger bands falter, the terrible condition of the local music scene… and we decided to change it.  If we could.”  

 

Dorian feels a peculiar mixture of emotions at this statement.  Pride, certainly - Maevaris is very well known, and for her to put Imperium behind her validates his own action in his eyes.  But there is also a strange, roiling jealousy as well; he’d long thought that he would go back to Tevinter, attempt some form of change within the music industry there.  But Mae isn’t  _ thinking  _ about it, she’s  _ doing _ it.  It makes Dorian feel positively apathetic, and he hates it.

 

“Well,” he says, masking this internal dialogue with a smile at Maevaris, who beams back, “That’s all very lovely, but how on earth is this affecting the dissolute rock and roll lifestyle?  I imagine there are rather fewer platinum blonde dye-jobs and days at the salon under the new, nameless regime?”

“A sacrifice I’m willing to make, Dorian, sweetling.”  She arches an eyebrow at him and sighs.  “I had better go.  I told Varric, you know, Varric Tethras, I’d be here, and we’re going to catch up.  I find myself rather missing him, for some odd reason.”

“I’m sure catching up will remind you of all his unpleasant qualities, my dear girl,” Dorian laughs, and squeezes her.  “Must dash ourselves.  I’m sure we’ll… see you around?”

 

“Of course!  I wouldn’t miss Thrown’s gig for worlds, sweets.  I’ll see you all tomorrow, if not before then.”  Maevaris squeezes his hand briefly and waggles her fingers in farewell.  “Enjoy the shows!  Cullen, I mean it, I want to know everything!”

 

“She seems nice,” Cullen says, watching Maevaris picking her way delicately through the crowd, beautiful kneehigh boots flecked with mud, but otherwise immaculate.  Cassandra chuckles, “Nice.  Right.  A beautiful woman who plays bass but still wants to know all about your gear?”  She elbows Cullen, who blushes, of course.  “Very  _ nice. _ ”

“Ex _ cuse _ me, you two,” Dorian says, “That’s my friend you’re talking about.”

Bull laughs, then says, “C’mon!  Chargers!”

 

And with that, they hear a choppy chord from the stage opposite them.  Bull laughs again, and then, oh Maker, he jumps and waves, then bellows, “Krem de la Creme!  Lookin’ good, kid!”

Krem laughs and shoulders Grim aside, yelling into the microphone, “Hey Chief!  Look, you lot, it’s Thrown from the Breach, slummin’ it with the punks!”  He laughs as the crowd turn, some cheering, others yelling catcalls.  Dorian smirks and blows a kiss, then turns his eyes back to the stage as Skinner raises her arms above her head and slams her sticks together four times.  Then she drums literally the maddest intro Dorian has ever heard, and when the rest of the band start playing, out comes this… jitterish, quirky sound.  It’s… punk, but it’s got these weird smooth elements to it as well, and Maker, they’re so tight! The way they all stop on the exact beat of where they’re supposed to, the way they careen around the stage, it’s incredible.  Dorian chances a look up at Bull, who is gripping his hand so tightly it is almost painful, and sees this beatific grin spread over Bull’s whole face.   _ He really is like a proud father _ , Dorian thinks and smiles.  

 

-|||-

 

The Chargers were actually quite wonderful.  They were a mess, visually, of course, but that’s part of the charm, or at least that’s what Dorian assumes.  Bull seems on cloud nine after their show, and Dorian watches fondly as he talks to Krem animatedly, the two of them echoing each others hand gestures seemingly almost without thought.   _ Like an old married couple _ , Dorian thinks, and an unexpected pang lances through him.  He shifts slightly, and starts when Cassandra pokes him in the shoulder blade and says, “I’m going to head down to Lycanthrope now.  Do you want to come?  Or are you going to…”

“No, no, I’m coming to see Fenris.  Vishante kaffas, nothing could keep me away.”  

Cassandra folds her arms over her chest and tilts her head.  “Alright.  Is Bull staying?”

“Do I look like his mother?” Dorian enquires sweetly, and Cassandra huffs disgustedly at him.

 

“Well, when you say it like that, I’d be happy to go and ask him,” he says, grinning at her.  He walks over to Krem and Bull, who are still talking.  As he approaches he notices how serious Bull’s face is, how Krem’s hands draw lines from Bull to himself in the air.  He frowns slightly, and overhears Krem say, “...new old opportunity, y’know?  Just think about it, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright,” Bull says quietly, and turns to Dorian.  “Hey!  Did Cassie wanna get going?”

 

“Yes, she did.  Lycanthrope hasn’t even wiggled himself into his tight leather pants and she’s already frothing at the mouth.”  Dorian smiles up at Bull, but he’s rather unsettled by the conversation, or part thereof, that he’s just heard.  But he shrugs it off, nodding at Krem as Bull says his goodbyes, and taking Bull’s proffered hand.  

 

-|||-

 

The Lycanthrope show was astonishing, really a thing of beauty.  True to form it had been intense, tightly controlled and yet emotionally exhausting.  __ Cassandra had been riveted during Fenris’ performance, completely oblivious to everything else, and Dorian had found himself feeling more than a little chagrinned at teasing her so.  Still, he thinks she probably needs a little gentle mockery every now and again.  He sighs, trying not to consider the truly awful burrito he is picking at in lieu of supper, considering how today has gone far better than day two.  Whether that is the added security, or simply luck, he does not know.  “You gonna eat that?” Cullen asks through his final mouthful, and Dorian sneers and shakes his head. 

 

“No,” he tells Cullen, handing the foil package over, and Bull follows the path of the burrito with his eyes, then turns to look imploringly at Dorian.  His mouth is too full to say anything without choking, but Dorian can read the look too well.  He laughs, “Did you want it?  Bull, fasta vass, you’ve already had three.”  He pokes at the roll of fat over Bull’s hip and smiles. “As much as I like a man with some meat on his bones, even I think that four burritos is probably pushing it.”  They are standing around just inside the restricted area north of stage one, watching the comings and goings around them as they eat.  The sky is rapidly darkening, turning from pinks and oranges to a deep, lush violet.  In only two hours, RDVD is scheduled to play, and it looks as if they will take the stage to a sold out crowd.  Dorian watches Cullen eat, and wonders what he might be thinking.  Cullen catches his eye and grins through a mouthful, and Dorian cannot help but smile back.  He will find out soon enough.

 

-|||-

 

The first stars begin to twinkle in the velvet night.  The weather had made a dramatic shift again, back to brightness from the overcast conditions of yesterday, though Dorian still thanks the Maker silently for his light jacket as dusk descends into night.  They are walking around, down near stage two on their way down to stage one and the RDVD gig - Cassandra and Bull now loudly debating the merits of Veilfire, who happen to have a rather talented lead guitarist.   _ Talented in every respect _ , Dorian thinks to himself and snickers at his own sophomoric wit.  Cullen smiles thinly at him and asks, “What’s so funny?”

“Oh nothing,” Dorian smirks, then looks at Cullen properly.  “Are you alright?”

 

Cullen tries a smile, and shrugs, putting his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. “No,” he says in reply, and sighs.  “I still don’t know what I’m going to say.  I’ve spent so long being angry at Lee, it’s hard to… hard to think about…”

Cullen allows the sentence to trail off, and Dorian sees his jaw clench.  “None of us know what will happen in the future, Cullen.  Sometimes it’s better to leave these things alone, though it’s never worked for me.”  Dorian pauses, and says blithely, “You know, you could still back out.  No-one’s making you see him again.”

 

“No-one except me.”  Cullen sighs, and lowers his voice to tell Dorian, “I… emailed Mia.  Finally.  She always emails me, and I’m a shit enough brother than I never email back.  But… I told her that you’d seen Lee, y’know, when we were in Verchiel.  And… it all just came tumbling out of me, how we’d been… you know… close, but maybe closer than she thought… and…”  Cullen shakes his head, his hair hanging about his face now so that Dorian cannot read his expression.  There is a pregnant pause, then Cullen resumes.  “I nearly didn’t send it.  But I did, and Mia wrote back just today.  She… she said a lot of things, but there were a couple that stuck with me.  That when I was in RDVD, before things got really shitty with the lyrium and all the pressure we were under, that was when I was… that was when I seemed like I was living my true purpose.  And that… when I was with Lee, it seemed like… to her… we were two halves of the same whole.  Her email said  _ I don’t know if you can get what you had back, but you owe it to yourself to try _ .  So.  I’m gonna try.”

 

Dorian cannot help his smile, and he nods in response.  “Good,” he tells Cullen, who tosses his hair away from his face and turns his head briefly to look at Dorian, who repeats, “Good. I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you.”

 

-|||-

 

It is only twenty minutes out from Red Dogs of Violent Death’s scheduled appearance, and everything looks to be tracking well.  Dorian stays close to Bull, ignoring the baleful stares of some of the fans who are clustered at the artists’ entrance.  Of course, no-one is quite brave enough to say anything, not with Bull present, but he feels the weight of their collective gaze upon him anyway.  He and Bull follow Cullen and Cassandra, threading their way through the maze of crew and equipment.  Dorian sees an extraordinarily tall man, strange scars on his face, bent and talking seriously to a little knot of people.  One of the men turns his head slightly, and Dorian sees it is Lee Samson.  An involuntary gasp lurches from him, and Bull says, “Culls.”

 

“Yeah,” Cullen says, and he sounds so forlorn, just in that one word.   _ This is a terrible mistake _ , thinks Dorian, wishing he was anywhere but here, and then Lee turns around enough to spot their little group.  He frowns, turns back to the tall man and says something, then stalks away from them.  Another man who had been with the group, Dorian sees it is the man with the strange mark on his forehead comes toward them.  

 

“Mads,” Cullen says hopefully, and the marked man immediately stops in front of them to say, “He does not wish to speak to you, Cullen Rutherford.”

“But…”

“No.  You may stay and watch, but you may not speak to him.  And it would be better if the mage left.”

“Hey, you can’t…” Bull begins, but Dorian hushes him with a gentle hand to his arm.  He wants to see the show, especially after such a long time of hearing about RDVD and their live performances, but he will go if it means Cullen can stay.   _ He needs this, _ Dorian thinks.  There is a beat of silence, and then Cullen says, lowly, “Maddox, I really need to see him.  If there was ever any friendship between us…”

 

“You know there was not, Cullen Rutherford.  Raleigh was with me at my darkest time.  He knows what I am, who I was, better than I now know myself.  There is not a single thing that he could ask of me that I would not do.  You, however, I owe no loyalty to, since you do not display any yourself.  Raleigh is right - you abandoned him.  But you abandoned me long ago.”  Maddox pauses, looking blankly at Cullen, his attention unwavering.  “Now, I have things to do.  Stay or leave at your discretion, but do not…”

“Mads, c’mon…”

“Do not try to speak to Raleigh again.”  Maddox’s face is still expressionless, and Dorian smothers a sharp intake of breath when he realises the man is Tranquil.  Maddox turns around without saying anything more, and strides back to the group he was with, where the tall man puts an arm around him and guides him away.  

 

Cullen’s shoulders sag.  “That’s it then,” he mutters and twists his hair around his fist.  “That’s it.”  He laughs without a trace of humour, his expression miserable, and Cassandra says, “No, it’s not.”  She puts her hands on her hips and clenches her jaw, looking at Cullen through narrowed eyes.  “I’m going to go and have a talk to that stupid son of a bitch, because I’ve had just about enough of this fucking high school bullshit.”

“Cass, no, please.  Let’s just… let’s just watch the show and go.”  Cullen passes a hand over his brow, “If he’s… if he doesn’t want to, then…”  Cullen tails off and shrugs, looking down.  

 

Dorian looks to Cassandra, who looks utterly heartbroken.  She only has eyes for Cullen, and she puts her hand out, leaving it hanging in the space between them as if she wants to offer him comfort, but does not know where to begin.  Cullen turns, blindly, and the rest of the group follow suit, when Dorian hears a soft, gruff voice behind them say, “Oi.  Rutherford.”

 

Lee is standing in the shadows, leaning against a cable rack.  Cullen gasps, turning quickly, and says, “Lee!  Lee, I…”

“Shut it, you git.  Mads is right - it would be better if Dorian left.”  He sighs harshly and looks at Dorian quickly as he says, “Sorry, mate.  This fuckin’ things got way out of my league now.”  He takes a deep breath and looks at Cullen.  “You wanna talk…”  He pauses, seems to gather his courage and says, “We can talk.  You got time tonight, after the show?”

Cullen nods, and Lee steps forward, a piece of paper in his hand.  “Meet me here, then?  ‘Bout half one?  ‘S the only time I got - we’re flyin’ south tomorrow morning.”  He laughs ruefully and says, “Show must go on, y’know?”

  
Cullen looks at the piece of paper in his hand and nods.  “Right,” says Lee, straightening as he puts his hands in his pockets.  “Then clear out of here, you lot.  I gotta get ready.  See you later, Len.”  He turns and slouches off, without looking behind him.  Cullen stares after his retreating figure, holding the piece of paper in between his thumb and forefinger, and Dorian smiles slightly as Cullen looks down on it in wonder, like it is something precious.  “Later,” Cullen mutters, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's only one more chapter to go, my friends. I... kind of can't believe that it's nearly here, but it's true, there's only next weeks to go and the story will be finished. I'll say this again next week, but it bears repeating - thank you so much for your wonderful support, you glorious rock and roll babies of darkness. It means so much to me. I'm basically just sayin' that now because I might have something in my eye next week and not quite be able to type properly. Don't think I'll be going around having _emotions_ or anything though. I'm just allergic to endings. You know how it is.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets an email; Bull gets a phone call. The future is discussed, and there's time for one last song.

* * *

“...the end / Of our elaborate plans, the end / Of everything that stands, the end / No safety or surprise…”

 _The End_ , The Doors ( _The Doors_ 1967)

* * *

 

 

Bull wasn’t having it.  “Kadan,” he had growled, and the sound alone was enough to send shivers up Dorian’s spine, “If I gotta carry you, I will.  I know you can take a pretty good pounding, but I’d rather I was the one doing it, and not two thousand Templar creeps.  Now _c’mon._ ”

 

Dorian smiles at the memory. He had whined at the time, of course, but he didn’t need to see Red Dogs of Violent Death that badly - and besides, hadn’t they got what they’d wanted?  Or Cullen certainly had.  Dorian’s smile broadens as he thinks of the way Cullen had looked down at the little slip of paper than Lee had given him, that expression on his face so filled with astonishment and wonder.  Dorian pokes at the scrambled egg on his plate as Bull strokes his shoulder and asks, “You alright, kadan?”

 

“Just thinking about yesterday.  I wonder how Cullen is?”

Bull smiles and shrugs and glances at his phone.  This is something that Dorian’s noticed him doing all morning - little glances at the phone, like he’s expecting a call or a text.   Dorian frowns slightly, puzzled. He opens his mouth to ask about it when Bull looks back at him and says, “Well, I guess we can ask him soon.  We gotta get to rehearsal, remember?”

 

“Oh!  Oh yes, of course.”  Dorian pushes his plate aside and sighs.  Rehearsal - it’s for the sake of the new song, and by now he knows exactly what will be greeting him; Cassandra, full of nerves, wondering if it is up to her exacting standards.  He smiles ruefully.   _Ah well, some things never change_ , he thinks and begins to rise.  Bull grins up at him, and then casts a quick glance at his phone again.  Dorian frowns, then shrugs.  He turns toward the bathroom, meaning to take a shower,  thinking that Bull will tell him what he’s waiting on when he’s ready.  But not two paces across the room, his phone vibrates in his pocket.  He pulls it out, sees it is an email notification.  Absentmindedly, he taps the icon to open the app, slowing his stride as he does it.  

 

The email is from Maevaris, and he smiles when he sees her name.  She writes,

 

_Dorian, you hothouse orchid,_

_It was lovely to see you yesterday!  I am sorry to drop the news about our - Dianae Rex’s - impending departure from Imperium on you in such a dramatic fashion.  And, my dear, I’m also sorry for the next part, if it offends you; would you like to talk about joining us?  There’s a place for you, if you wish it.  I would never mention it, except you seemed rather unhappy for a moment when I was talking of the changes that we hope to effect.  I know how your own experience with Imperium was, and believe I know the desire for change which you and I both share.  If it is something you’d like to talk about - just talk, I’m sure you’re very happy (and very legally obligated, haha) with Inquisition - please do let me know.  But of course, if I need to buy you a bottle of something delicious and extraordinarily expensive to assuage in some small way the offence I’ve caused, just say the word._

 

_In any case, I’d love to hear from you - I’ll be in Haven for the next two days, if you have time for a chat,_

_x, Mae_

 

Dorian feels, rather bizarrely, on the verge of tears.  Guilt rises within him - he wants this, desperately, awfully - and then hard on its heels there is resentment.  Surely his work with Thrown is worth sacrificing if it means Tevinter would become even slightly better.  But Bull… there is his relationship with Bull to consider.  He knows that it would damage Mae’s fledgling labels chances of success, where he associated with it and with Bull, so deep is the hatred of Qunari and their politics, so deep the fear of the Tal Vashoth.  And in the end of it, it’s such a small thing, his happiness, what would it even mean as a sacrifice?  Then, from somewhere within his mind, a touch-memory surfaces, Bull’s hands, their warmth, their comfort.   _How could you even consider it?_ he wonders and covers his mouth, only just repressing a sound of strange, puzzled grief.  

 

He breathes out, slowly through his fingers.  “Y’alright, Dorian?” Bull asks from behind him, and he nods.  “Never better,” he says, perhaps a little too brightly, but he’s walking forward now, toward the bathroom again.  

 

Once he’s through the door and it’s closed behind him, he leans against the door and looks at the ceiling.   _You can’t_ , he tells himself, _how could you even consider… but what if… what if it works?  Isn’t it better to… no.  No, of course.  But then…_  Mechanically, he pulls off his clothes, sets the shower going, then stares at himself in the bathroom mirror.  Vaguely, he hears Bull talking to someone and frowns, then thinks that the phone call that Bull has clearly been expecting has finally come through.  He sighs, and his thoughts return to Mae’s email.  Would it hurt to get in contact with her?  Surely not.  He steps into the shower, under the spray, and readjusts the temperature.  

 

After a few minutes of just standing there under the water, turning his thoughts over and over in his mind, trying to rid himself of the guilt at leaving Bull at the one option and the guilt at not trying to do better for his homeland on the other, he hears a knock at the bathroom door.  Frowning, he asks, “Bull?”

“Yeah,” Bull says, and then asks, “Can I come in, kadan?”

“Of course,” Dorian tells him.  Bull never asks.  Bull just… arrives in the room, no matter what he’s doing.  He’s always good about leaving again if Dorian asks, but… he never asks first.  But here he is, opening the door, head lowered, face pensive through the steam and dribbling condensation on the shower doors.  Dorian rubs a window in the excess water on the clear perspex of the shower door and asks, “What’s up?  Why the long face?”

 

Bull laughs, but there’s no humour in it.  “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Of course,” Dorian repeats, then turns off the shower.  “Hand me a towel?”

Silently, Bull passes him a towel over the top of the shower doors.  Dorian dries his hair, taking his time, and then wraps the damp towel around his waist.  He opens the door of the shower and looks at Bull for a long moment before saying, “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

 

Bull is silent for a minute, leaning against the small basin set into the vanity.  He looks even larger than normal in the enclosed space, and the quiet seems doubly strange after the white noise of the shower.  All of a sudden, he asks, “What do you want, Dorian?”

 

Dorian’s frown deepens.  “What do you mean?”  Bull looks just as he has felt a moment before - guilty, sad.  Taking a deep breath, Bull says, “I meant, what do you want to do?  You’re an ambitious guy.  I overheard Josie telling Ataash that she’d had some contact with Venatori the other day about you.  And…” he pauses, and his voice is strained, “I saw your face when Mae was telling you about her new label.  I…”  he looks quickly at Dorian, then away again, and smiles and shrugs, then is silent.

 

Dorian clenches his jaw.  Before he has too much time to think, he blurts out, “I had an email from her, from Mae, just now.  She… she wants me to join them.  The new label, or at least talk to her about it.  Bull…”  and he forces a smile, raises his chin as he says, “You’re terribly dull, and I do hate you so very much, but I wouldn’t leave Thrown.  I mean, goodness, how _would_ you talentless creatures get along without me?”

 

Bull exhales a short laugh.  “Guess that’s the thing.  I gotta talk to the rest of them today, but… I’m gonna go back to the Chargers.”

The words hang in the steamy air, and Dorian knows his mouth is hanging open, but he’s utterly powerless to stop himself.  After a minute, which feels almost as if it lasts a year, he says entirely against his better judgement, “You’re… you’re going back?”  A flare of hurt burns in his chest and he asks, “But… what about..?”

 

Bull nods.  “Yeah.  I know.  Apart from Krem, you’re the first one to know.  I just… I didn’t want to be the one holding you back.  Kadan, Dorian, I know you’ll be better at the solo artist thing, about helping Mae get this thing off the ground than you ever would have been with Thrown.  Hell, you’re better than we deserve anyway.  I mean, c’mon, you can’t have not seen the way Cassie’s talent’s pulling her back to metal, and Culls will go wherever she does.  We’re done.  We’ve achieved what we set out to achieve and…”

“Excuse me?  We?  Who gave you the right to make these executive decisions about what I should do with my life?”  Even to Dorian this sounds ridiculous, and part of him warns himself to curtail his outburst, but he can’t, he just can’t.  “We are not _done_ , I won’t stand here and have you tell me that you’re abandoning this enterprise!  You can’t just…”

 

“I can.  I will.  Dorian, I don’t make this decision lightly.  You know that.  And I know that I’m hearing a whole lot of fear behind those big words of yours.  You’re scared to fall flat on your ass doin’ this thing with Mae.  And yeah,”  Bull spreads his hands wide and grins, “It’s on the cards for sure.  But you ain’t gonna change shit if you don’t try.  And I know you couldn’t live with yourself if you didn’t try.”

 

Dorian swallows and is silent.   _This is the more he wants_ , Anders’ voice, speaking Cole’s words, tells him, and he feels his jaw work.  “But…” he begins, and is silent once more.  

 

Bull gets up from his leaning position and approaches Dorian, his arms out as if he’s going to embrace him.  Dorian quails for a moment, then puts his hand out, at arm’s length.  “No.  Just… give me a moment.”

Bull stops, and puts his hands back down at his sides.  They say nothing, and Bull takes a deep breath, then exhales.  Finally, Dorian asks, hating how his voice sounds, little and hurt and lost, “What about us?”

 

“Yeah,” Bull says, and then perversely is quiet.  Eventually, he speaks again, and his voice sounds thick, like he is barely holding back tears.  Dorian looks at him sharply, sees his solitary eye glisten as he says, “You were the greatest thing to happen to me, kadan.  But you could affect so many more lives, you could help so many.  I’m only one guy, at the end of the day.  And there’s no way I’m gonna hold you back.”

“What if I want to be held back?” Dorian asks sharply, and the words come spilling out of him, “What if I fuck it up?  What if I cause more damage than is already there?  I can’t change the world, I can’t change Tevinter…”

“Nah, but you can start it.  I get it, kadan.  No one wants to fuck up, especially when they’ve got such good intentions, especially not when there’s so much riding on it.”  Bull swallows, and holds his arms out toward Dorian.  “But please.  Don’t throw away this opportunity for me.”

 

The emotions within Dorian shift and pitch uneasily.  He feels both anger and relief, and cannot be certain which is what; is the anger directed at himself, for wanting to follow Mae’s lead, or is it at Bull, for arranging his life so that he would leave Dorian?  Is the relief based on the fact that he will no longer have to struggle with what he feels for Bull?   _That’s shameful_ , he thinks, _it’s not that_.  He takes a deep breath in and exhales slowly out his mouth.  “If you don’t think you’re worth throwing everything away for, then you’re wrong.  I… have to confess, I feel a little cheated.  You went behind my back with this thing with the Chargers.  What would you have done if I’d not had this opportunity?”

 

Bull frowns.  “Dorian, kadan, we’re different people.  We have different things we want; we don’t have to be in the same band to be together.  Vashedan, we don’t even have to be on the same continent.  I know how I feel about you, and that doesn’t change no matter how far apart we are.”

“But, what if…” Dorian asks, and is unable to complete the sentence - he means to ask _But what if this is the end? The end of us?_  When he looks at Bull he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror - Maker, he looks so lost.  He huffs out a breath and tosses his hair off his forehead.  “Then, if this is what the future will hold, we’ll face it together.  Because I’m a damn sight harder to get rid of than you appear to think, amatus.”

 

Bull grins, relief and joy washing over his features.  Dorian smiles back, walks into his outstretched arms and puts his head against Bull’s chest; warm, smooth skin, and that smell, oh that smell.  He feels the tears prickle at his eyelids, and closes them as he smiles again.   Finally, he breaks the embrace, and tells Bull, “I suppose I’d better get in contact with Mae then.  And we’d better get ready to tell Thrown.  I don’t know if I’m more frightened of Josephine’s reaction or Cassandra’s.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then they say together, “Josephine,” and laugh.  But it is uneasy, still hurting, and Dorian grieves for that which he’s lost and won and lost again.

 

-|||-

 

Cassandra and Josephine are talking quietly together when they meet at the rehearsal space later that day.  Thrown will not be playing until later that night, around ten thirty, so they’ve elected to have a final practice beforehand.  Cassandra sighs as they enter, and she tells them, “I suppose I may as well tell you too, since you’re here.”

 

Dorian looks at Bull, and Bull shrugs slightly.  “Tell us what, Cassie-baby?” he asks.  Dorian looks at Cassandra with polite enquiry, and rubs his thumb lightly over the back of Bull’s knuckle.  Cassandra shifts, looking nervous, and glances at Josephine, who tells her, “Go on.”

 

Cassandra swallows, then frowns deeply.  After a moment of silence, she blurts out, “Lycanthrope asked me to write and record with him.  Maybe tour as well, but we’ll see.  I haven’t said yes yet… but…”

“Cassandra’s contract - all of your contracts - will end this year.  Of course, we need Cullen to be here for this…”

The door on the opposite end of the room opens further and Cullen enters, grinning.  “Here for what?” he asks softly.  He looks tired, very tired, but much more relaxed than Dorian had ever seen him before.  “What did I miss?”

“Cullen!”  Cassandra says loudly, “Is that a love bite on your neck?”

 

Cullen’s eyes widen, and he slaps a hand to the side of his neck, right over a dark brown-purple bruise.  Dorian bites his lip as he puts a hand over his mouth, then raises his eyes to the ceiling, trying to disguise the fact that he’d desperately love to bray laughter.  “Culls,” Bull says slyly, “Glad to see the reunion went well then.”

Cullen is blushing a deep pink, and he takes his hair from his collar and winds it around his fist, holding it over the bruise on his neck.  “Yeah,” he says, really looking like the cat that got the cream, at least to Dorian.  He sits on the edge of a chair, clears his throat and asks, “So - enough about me, what did you need me here for?”

 

Cassandra smirks at him and shakes her head.  Josephine looks a little aghast and then shakes her head also.  She looks down at the tablet in her hands, and Dorian thinks she looks a little sad.  “I was just saying that Cassandra’s contract will be up at the end of the year, which will enable her to write and record as part of Freedom Music.  Rather than on loan from Inquisition, as it were.”

Cullen frowns at Cassandra who tells him, “Fenris asked.  I told him a tentative yes.”  There is silence for a moment, then Dorian clears his throat.  “I… think I have some news too.  Or..?” He looks at Bull questioningly, but Bull motions with his hand, sort of a ‘be my guest’ gesture, and Dorian continues.  “Well, I had an email from Mae - Maevaris Talani,” he provides for Josephine’s benefit.  She looks confused for a moment, then understanding dawns on her face and she says, “Dianae Rex, correct?”

“...The very same,” Dorian continues, “She wants… well, she asked if I’d be interested in helping her set up her new label.  They’ve been signed to Imperium for a long time - it’s really the only option back home, if you want to distribute music on a commercial scale.  And they buy up as many of the independent labels as they can get their hands on, so it’d mean quite an operation to curtail that, to reinvent the system somewhat so that it’s more artist focused, less profit driven.  Revolutionary, somewhat.  It’s… something I’d want to be based in Qarinus, or perhaps Minrathous for.  It’s the kind of opportunity that doesn’t come along very often.  At all, ever, really.”

 

Cullen, Cassandra and Josephine are all looking at him rather worriedly.  He casts a glance at Bull, who says, “You’re wondering what it means for us, right?”  He snorts, and smiles wryly, “Aside from the fact it’s not exactly your business, not that part anyway, Dorian and I haven’t figured that bit out for sure yet.  But my contract is up after this tour.  So I’m goin’ back to the Chargers.”

 

Josephine sighs.  “So this is it then?  You’re… breaking up?”

Dorian cannot help it - he looks at Cullen.  “What about you, Cullen?  Where does this leave you?”

Cullen says nothing for a moment, and Dorian watches him very carefully.  He doesn’t seem taken aback, or concerned however; more resigned, as if this was something he’d expected.  Finally, Cullen speaks.  “I honestly don’t know.  But I’ve been thinking for a while that a change of scene was probably in order.  I… still love making music.  Maybe I’ll go into production, perhaps session for a while.  That might be nice for a change.”  He looks at Dorian briefly and smiles, “Though your idea… or rather, Maevaris’ idea of changing things up in the record industry is interesting.  Perhaps I’ll think of something along those lines - maybe like what Lee’s done, or Hawke.  Break White Chant’s monopoly down here, if you break Imperium’s monopoly in Tevinter.”  He grins at Dorian, and shrugs.  “Sound like a plan?”

 

“It certainly does, Mr Rutherford.  I’m slightly perturbed at this sudden capacity for recklessness, but I must say, it’s rather a good look on you.”  Dorian takes a deep breath, and squeezes Bull’s hand.  “I… look, I’m not one for speeches…”

“Whatever, kadan…”

“Makers’ Breath, _that’s_ not true…”

“Yes, Dorian, you love the sound of your own voice…”

“...yes, yes, well, perhaps you’re right, but indulge me for a moment, would you?”  Dorian snorts and looks around at them all.  “I know we have a show to do, and I know that we came here to rehearse.  But… I’d just like to say that it’s been…” he swallows, and smiles at them, “It’s been a real pleasure working with you all.  You took a chance on me, and I’ll never forget that.  So… thank you.  Thank you all.”

 

Josephine sniffles, and wipes surreptitiously at her eyes.  Bull beams at him and puts his other hand to Dorian’s.  Cullen smiles at him and looks down at the floor, and Cassandra… well, Cassandra.  She looks at him, rather grimly, then rises.  Quickly, she crosses the room to where Dorian and Bull stand, then stops for just a moment, seemingly frozen.  Then she shakes her head and makes a revolted noise before leaning forward and embracing him.  “You are one of the finest guitar players I know,” she tells him, “And I know your enterprises will be successful.  But if you ever need me - for anything - you let me know.”

 

He accepts Cassandra’s embrace, though he rolls his eyes at Cullen behind her back.  Cullen chuckles, then sighs and rubs his eyes.  “I’m too old for this shit,” he says, “Staying out all night isn’t quite what it used to be.”

Bull laughs, and Cassandra releases Dorian.  She turns to Cullen and says sternly, “You’d better not be so tired you mess up our gig.  I’ll kick Samson’s ass if he’s fucked you for tonight.”

Dorian’s eyes widen at Cassandra’s slip, and before he can help himself, he says with a waggle of his eyebrows, “I think that was _last_ night’s objective.”

Bull bellows laughter, eyes twinkling with delight.  Cullen goes beet-red, and he looks at Josephine, who grins and raises her hands telling him, “It wasn’t me who walked in with a hickey.  Don’t look for protection here.”

 

“Oh, Maker’s Breath,” Cullen groans, putting his hands to his cheeks and rubbing furiously, as if he is hoping to wipe his skin clear of the blush.  “Let’s go get this song done, you fucking assholes.”

Dorian sketches a salute, and then laughs, “As you wish, Commander.  Lead on!”

 

-|||-

 

The night air is thick, humid.  All day the sun has blazed in the deep azure of the mountain sky as each band has stepped them closer to performance time.  Dorian paces restlessly in the green room, running the setlist over and over in his head.  There is a knock on the door, and Bull looks up as he says, “Come in!”

 

“Wotcha, you gits!”  Sera’s face peeks around the doorframe, a huge white bandage stuck to her forehead.  “Came to say break a leg! Y’not busy doin’ it or whatever, are ya?”

“Sera!”  Dorian grins, “Come in, come in!  How are you feeling?  That was awful, utterly awful, what happened the other day.  I’m so glad to see you.  Where’s Dagna?  It’s… oh, it’s so good to see you.”

“Yeah, well, wish I could say the same for you two.  But nah,” Sera smirks at him and tosses her hair, then laughs. “You’re both still ugly as the back end of a fart machine.  Dags is packin’ up, we’re goin’ down the road, doin’ a tour ‘round the underground.  Kal Shirok, Orzammar and that.  See Dags’s parents.  See if we can get their blessing and that.”  She sniffs, then rolls her eyes.  “Things I do for love, yeah?”  She pauses, shifting nervously, then looks at Bull briefly, before looking away again to mutter, “Heard a bad rumour about you lot.”

“Really?” Dorian asks, and looks at Bull, who shrugs.  “And what was this rumour?”

 

“That you was breakin’ up.  Dunno why or nothing, just what I heard, right, friend of a friend, like?”  Sera pauses again, then thrusts both hands into her pants pockets, and begins to  rummage furiously.  Bull has risen as she’s talking, and stands next to Dorian, a comforting presence.  

“Can’t say anything,” Bull tells her, “Too soon.”

“Yeah, I know it.”  Sera withdraws her hands, and held in each one is a cookie.  “Take it.  Just for luck.  Ain’t much, but fuck it yeah?  You… you take care of each other, ‘n’ that, right?  You’ll look out for each other?  Doesn’t matter what happens?  Aw, fuck, I’m blabbering now, but…”  She sniffs, waggles the cookies, thrusting them forwards, then says angrily, “Go on, take ‘em, you dozey fucks.”

 

Silently, they each take a cookie, and Sera smiles at them, wiping her hands free of crumbs on her pants legs.  “Sorry I couldn’t come see ya play.  Bull, keep in touch, right?  We never did get to get beer and ice cream.”

Bull smiles at her, says, “Hey, there’s plenty beer and ice cream in the world.  We’ll get there.  Maybe you two could come support the Chargers sometime.”

Sera laughs, “Fuck that.  Maybe they could come support _us_!”

Bull’s grin broadens, and he taps her lightly on the arm.  “Yeah.  Maybe.  Be good to that woman of yours, Sez.  She’s a peach.”

“Don’t I know it.  My peach with the peach,” she grins, then rubs her arm absentmindedly.  “Well, guess I gotta go.  Break a leg and that.  Have fun.”  She shuffles to the door, her mislaced sneakers creaking, and opens it.  “Laters, dickheads.”

 

“‘Bye, Sera.  Thanks,” Bull says, and Dorian nods, smiling.  While she watches, he stuffs the entire cookie into his mouth.  She brays laughter, and asks him over her shoulder, “What if I’da put shit in it this time?”  Her laughter follows her out the door, and then she is gone.

 

Bull looks at him and laughs, but it sounds sad.  He is silent, still smiling, watching as Dorian chews - the cookie was far too big, that was a rash decision, but the moment was upon him.  Finally, Dorian is able to swallow, and when he’s done it, Bull says, “I love you, kadan.”

Dorian grins at him and wipes his moustache.  “I’m not all crumby, am I?”

“Nah,” Bull says, then smooths his thumb over Dorian’s moustache.  His thumb trails down, over Dorian’s lips, then he moves his face closer, and kisses Dorian gently.  “Gotta check thoroughly, y’know,” he mutters.

 

“Oh, I appreciate it,” Dorian murmurs back, and puts his arms around Bull’s waist.  They are still for a moment, until Dorian takes a deep breath and steps away.  There are loud footsteps outside, and someone says, “...not even equalized yet…” as the footsteps recede.  Dorian takes a deep breath and blows it out, and then there’s a knock at the door and Lace yells, “Twenty minutes, guys!”

“Thank you!” Dorian yells back, then twirls his moustache.  Bull looks at him consideringly and then asks, “Whatcha thinking?”

“Oh, lots of things.  Is it too soon to announce the situation, do you think?”

 

Bull shrugs, “Josie woulda told us if we could.  It’s not so much a contractual thing for us, but there’s definitely problems if it sounds to potential sign ups like we’re jumping ship from Inquisition.  So… maybe not tonight, kadan.”  Bull’s mouth twitches a little and he says, “I know how you love a dramatic announcement though.”

 

“Hey, you guys decent?” comes Cullens voice from outside, and when Dorian tells him they’re fine, he enters.  “Sorry, didn’t want to interrupt anything… or get an eyeful of butt.”  He snickers and shrugs, “You know how it is.”

“Yes, I’m well aware,” Dorian says, his eyebrow arched.  Cullen enters the room carrying his grey-tone Schecter protectively, at leans it gently in the rack next to Dorian’s Manson.  Cullen sighs.  “Kind of hard to believe we won’t be doing this any more after tonight.”

 

Bull snorts.  “Nah, think of the reunion shows, Culls!  We can get together and slam out a few tracks, you with your middle aged paunch, me with my crows feet and massive beard…”

“Ew, Maker, please _do not_ grow a massive beard, that’s repellant,” Dorian shudders.  He rubs his chest vaguely, and Cullen looks at him worriedly.  “Are you alright?”

 

Dorian smiles, though he knows it’s not his best work.  “Of course, Cullen.  Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Who was being ridiculous?  You look… I don’t know.  Sick.  Sad.”  

“I’m fine, Cullen,”  Dorian rolls his eyes, “Where’s Cassandra?”

 

Cullen chuckles and says, “Where do you think?  Where is she _always_ , minutes out from the show?  Nagging the techs, of course.”

“Ah.  Of course.”  There is silence in the room, but outside they can hear the crowd beginning to chant.  It’s slow, not as loud yet as it will become, but getting there.  Dorian smiles a little to himself, and Bull wraps an arm around his shoulders.  “I love how you still love that, kadan.”

 

“What’s not to love?  They’re here for us.  If we can’t do them justice, then what are we here for?  And if you don’t love it, then you’re clearly not in the right industry.” Dorian says this last airly, revolving his hand slowly on his wrist as he speaks, a regal gesture.  Cullen smiles at them, and then says, “So… uh.  I know you said it was none of our business, what you guys would do, but…”

 

“We don’t know, Cullen.  It’ll work itself out.  Don’t worry about it on our behalf,” Bull says, and Dorian thinks he detects a faint strain of _drop it_ in his tone.  Cullen nods thoughtfully, and rubs at his neck.  Dorian smirks.  “It’s still there, you know.  Aren’t you going to cover it?  Make up or something?”

Cullen shakes his head, and though he is blushing a little, he also looks rather defiant.  “Nope.  Maybe Bull could give you one too.  Then we’d match.”

“Ugh,” Dorian says, before he chuckles and adds, “As if I’d ever wear the same thing as someone else to an event of this kind of import.  How utterly _galling_.”

 

Bull and Cullen both laugh, then Lace’s voice sails through the door again, “Ten minutes!  Oi!  Places, you lot!”

Dorian’s heart leaps into his throat.   _I can’t do it,_ he thinks, _I can’t.  This is it, this is the last show and we’re all going… we’re all leaving here tonight with no more Thrown from the Breach, no more band.  No more tour, no more Bull, no more gently mocking Cassandra, no more of that stupid caveman joke with Cullen… no more, oh Maker, no more Bull._ He looks at Bull, beginning to panic, and Bull turns to him, drumsticks in hand and his brow creases with concern.  “Kadan?”

 

“Bull.”

The enormity of what they are about to do is upon him, and he feels his heart sink and his gorge rise at the single, finality of the name, that one syllable.  Cullen glances between them, and says quietly, “I’ll just be…” then he takes his bass and exits the room.  The crowd noise booms into the enclosed space and is cut off again as Cullen closes the door behind himself.

Bull waits, and Dorian swallows.  “I…” he begins, and puts a hand to his mouth.  Bull is silent, still waiting, his expression strange.  “Kadan?” he asks again, and Dorian hears the thickness of his tone, then the sweet weight of the words, that bitter crush worsened by them - “I love you.  This isn’t the end.”  

 

Dorian takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly.  “I know.  I know it.  And I love you too.  I just… was overcome for a moment.  I’m alright.”  He smiles, and from the way Bull returns it, he knows it must look far less artificial than it seems.  “Now, come on!  We mustn’t keep everyone waiting.”

“Same ol’ ‘vint,” Bull chuckles, and runs the tip of one finger gently around the edge of Dorian’s ear, “Always wantin’ to be the centre of attention.”

“And when one looks this sensational, what is the harm?” Dorian asks, and Bull laughs, following him from the room.

 

-|||-

 

“Skyhold, you’re too kind,” Dorian purrs into the microphone.  He is dripping with sweat in the humid air, under the lights.  He glances across at Cassandra, who is concentrating fiercely on something her technician is telling her.  She nods, then takes the new guitar from him; most of Thrown’s songs are in a dropped tuning, but this, their last song, the new song, is not.  She looks at Dorian as she pulls the strap over her head and nods, then looks down again to check the leads.  He smiles at her, then turns to Cullen, who beams and nods.  Dorian swallows - he doesn’t quite trust himself to look back at Bull, has not been able to the whole time they’ve been on stage.  He pauses, and hears Bull laugh into his comms mic, then two swift beats on the kick pedal - Bull knows.  He’s ready.  Dorian takes a deep lungful of air, and asks the crowd, “Do you want to hear something a little different?”

 

The crowd roars, mightily in assent.  Dorian sees only a sea of faces, banners and waving arms, lights of phones; he loves this.  It’s a strange balm for his worry about what his future holds, the adoration of strangers.  Still, any port in a storm.  So he beams, and tells them, “Good.  This is a new song, so new it doesn’t really have a title yet, but fresh for you, you rock and roll babies of darkness…” a roar at that, and Dorian snorts laughter into the microphone, “Fresh for you, here it is.”

 

He glances at Cassandra, who taps her foot deliberately for a four count, and then they’re in.  “Now I know,” Dorian sings, “That I can’t make you stay…” He stares out at the crowd as he sings, concentrating on the shapes that his fingers make, listening to Cassandra, hearing when Cullen comes in.  There’s not much for Bull in the first couple of bars, not until the song ramps up, as Dorian sings “And I know, there’s nothing I can say…” It’s a brooding one, this; it has morphed considerably since Cassandra and Dorian had first begun writing it, way back during their few days in Nevarra.  And will Cassandra go back there, Dorian wonders, after she’s finished working with Fenris?  Will she think of him when she next walks into her family tomb?  Perhaps not; perhaps they will trade emails for a time and then as the distance grows in years as well as miles, the exchange of correspondence will slow, and then stop.  

 

He sees Cullen from the corner of his eye, long hair hanging in his face as usual, concentrating.  “So many… bright lights, they cast a shadow,” Dorian sings, and wonders how long it will be before Cullen gets pulled back to lyrium.  How long it will be before he reads an obit, or sees a piece in Philliam on the Late, Great, Cullen Rutherford.  Surely not.  Not after so much toil, so much personal suffering to get himself here.  But Dorian knows it won’t be Lee Samson, or anyone else who decides Cullens fate - it will be Cullen himself.  He smiles a little, thinking _hope springs eternal_ as he sings the line, “...I get so weak.”

 

It is not until he starts on the second part of the chorus that he finds himself in trouble.  When he sings the words, he knows there is nothing he can do, he will have to make the best of it, but the words, _I am not afraid to keep on living, I am not afraid to walk this world alone; Honey, if you stay, I’ll be forgiven, Nothing you can say can stop me going home_ , they seem…

He can’t do this.

 

He has to.

 

He keeps singing, the tears stinging his eyes, blurring the stage lights to diamonds in his vision.  The drums keep going, Bull keeps going, perfect time, never wavering for a moment.  Dorian can envision him behind his kit, grinning wildly; grey skin, black tattoos, shining beautifully under the bright lights.  The world had seemed so small, when it was the two of them together.  And now, it seems insurmountably large again, full of unknowns, possibilities.  Of strangeness, of beauty, of sorrow and loneliness.  The music soars, and Dorian sings the last bridge, “‘Cause I see you lying next to me… with words I thought I’d never speak… awake and unafraid…” and the tears spill from his eyes finally.  He cannot help it, part of himself grieves in the moment, while part of him exalts at that which will follow.  Thrown from the Breach may be ending, but there is so much more to come.  And if he fails… if he fails…

  
“I am not afraid to keep on living,” Dorian sings, and his heart breaks at what the future holds, even as the sound of drums echoes out across the mountains, into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. So that's it.
> 
> The song that Thrown perform at the end is actually by My Chemical Romance; it's called [_Famous Last Words_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bbTtPL1jRs) from the 2006 album _The Black Parade_. I think that the lyrics are pretty apt.
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you who have been with me for this long-ass adventure - particularly my wonderful betas, who worked their asses off for me and didn't pull their punches - please know this story would be nothing like what it is without you. I'm really fuckin' proud of it. Also know that every comment and kudos and person who's come to talk to me about this story on tumblr has made me so happy; you're all amazing and wonderful creatures (and I'm sorry for making you cry, if I did - I made myself cry, so know you're not alone in that). 
> 
> It's not the end of the 'verse, though it is the end of the story. I have far too much head canon and plot bunnies about Fader to leave them to their own devices, so after a bloody long rest, I'm going to do something similar for Taliesin and the gang. In the meantime, [I tumble here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/littlexabyss); come yell to me sometime.
> 
> Now it only remains for me to take my final bow, smash my guitar and say, Goodnight! You rock and roll babies of darkness! I love you all!


	31. _coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this the secret track. By special request from zebrakqueen on tumblr.

Dorian signs his name with a flourish, and looks up at the fresh faces across his desk.  “Gentlemen,” he announces, “Welcome to Lucerni Music.  Now, there are a few small details to which we will need to attend…” he hears the phone in his desk draw vibrate, and his heart leaps, “...but not until after you’ve celebrated your new record deal in whichever style most befits such a momentous occasion.”  He glances at the young band’s manager, a woman not much older than the band in front of him and smiles at her.  He rises, and they all get up as well, pushing back their chairs with  palpable sighs of relief.  As he walks them out of his office, he tells them, “I’ll be in touch regarding dates for recording and some other minor things, and then we’ll really put you all to work.  In the meantime, have fun.  Not too much,” he chides gently, then chuckles.  He glances at his assistant, and asks, “Alexa, hold my calls for the foreseeable future, would you?”

She nods, and Dorian feels that familiar old thrill swoop and coil within him as he turns and closes his office door.

 

Seated again behind the desk, he finds the contact listing in his phone.  He pushes the green send icon, and smiles in anticipation.  It only rings once, and then Bull’s voice is down the line, his too-loud holler of “Kadan!” making Dorian wince and laugh, hold the phone away from his ear.  “Nice to hear from you too,” he mocks gently, and Bull laughs. 

“Thought you were in a meeting or something when you didn’t pick up,” he says, and Dorian snorts.

“I was,” he purrs, “But I got rid of them.  Amatus, it’s been too long.”

“You always were shit at waiting,” Bull tells him, and then there is a noisy swallow.  Bull’s voice, when he next speaks, is low, deep, and full of feeling: “Twenty seven days since your plane took off.  Twenty seven days and fourteen hours, if you wanna get technical.”

 

“I’ve never been one for technicalities,” Dorian says gently, and feels the familiar twist of guilt in his stomach.  He pushes it away, knowing it is for the best, this separation - or...not knowing, perhaps.  Perhaps only hoping.  “Bull, are you..?”

“Yeah.  But I’m okay.  Keepin’ busy, you know.  The Chargers’re just rounding out their tour now, two nights in Starkhaven, then one in Kirkwall.  It’s been good to have a break, I guess.  Actually live somewhere for a while.”

 

Dorian smiles, gazing blankly through the window at the skyscrapers of downtown Minrathous.  Artemis Rex, Mae’s band, are back on the road, and the three bands which they’d poached from Imperium have records in various states of completion.  Plus there is the distribution agreement with Freedom/Apostasy to look over after it’s return from legal, and… he sighs.  “A break, you say?  It sounds rather a fib to me, amatus.  I’m sure you’re finding it all rather stationary for your liking, especially after so long on the road.”

 

“Got it in one, Dori-baby.  I’m bored off my tits.”  Bull laughs, and then goes quiet.  The silence pulls out, awkward, and suddenly Bull says quietly, “Hey, I was thinkin…”

“Dangerous habit, that,” Dorian tells him, and Bull chuckles.

“I always liked to live dangerously,” he says, then hesitantly says, “Look, I know you’re up to your ass in work, but… I got the apartment all to myself, you know…”

 

“Bull, that is the shittiest invitation for a dirty weekend away that I ever heard.  Of course, I accept.”  Dorian grins, and he hears the relief in Bull’s laughter.  

“Thought you might be too busy,” he says, and Dorian shakes his head.  

“Nice to know you haven’t gotten any smarter in my absence,” he says blithely, though it is hard to keep the pleasure out of his voice.  He glances at his watch, sighs, and says without thinking, “I miss you.”

 

“Miss you too,” Bull tells him, and harrumphs, obviously trying to clear his throat.  “You tell me when you got flights, okay?  Man, I wish you could be here tomorrow.  Hell, I wish you were here right now, kadan.”  Dorian sighs into the phone and watches a bird as it wheels awkwardly between the buildings.  “I do too.  I’ll be there as soon as I can.”  He wants to tell Bull that this separation isn’t forever, but he will not spin soft lies to Bull.  Couldn’t, even if he wanted to; even if he did know what the future held for them.  “Hey,” Bull says, “I love you, Dorian.”

  
Dorian snorts a laugh and looks at his nails, “I’m sure I’ve told you this once before, in the back of a tour bus, I believe, but I’m very loveable.  People even say I’m charming.”  He listens to Bull chortle, feeling the weight of the twenty seven days and all the miles between them, and says softly, “But I love you too.”


End file.
